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0 


THE 


SCHOOL FOE FATHEES. 


at'tHii iEiigIi«!t 


BY T. 6WYNN 


“ The puir mon that has patience to mak’ a buik has some claim 
to the patience o’ him wha only reads it.” 

, Eliot Warburton’s “ Darien.^^ 



HARPER <fe BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
329 & 33 1 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 


1 8 52 . 



DEDICATORY PREFACE. 


Dearest Friend, 

You have been so kind as to accept the dedication 
of this work, for which my best thanks are due to you. 
I need offer you, I know, neither apology nor explana- 
tion for having placed my story in the Eighteenth cen- 
tury, seeing how well affected you are to the polished 
days of swords and powder. 

The world in general (at least in this country) does 
not share, perhaps, in your and my admiration for 
that epoch ; which induces me to write a few lines to 
explain my motives for inditing a tale of that era. In 
those days the difference between Town and Country 
manners, and Town and Country gentlemen was far 
greater than in these railway days : these days of 
rapidity, electric and submarine telegraphs. 

"Wishing for a contrast, how could I find it better 
than in a Town Father and a Country fox-hunting 
Son of the Eighteenth century. 


Vi DEDICATORY PREFACE. 

That was one of my reasons for choosing that period. 
Another reason was that I thought a red-heel story 
would he a novelty. 

Many are the tales of the present day ; many are 
the tales of Cavaliers and Roundheads ; many are the 
tales of the days of Chivalry : hut few, very few, are 
the tales of the talons rougesP 

Hoping that the epoch of my story may not, in the 
eyes of my readers, deduct from its interest ; hoping 
that you may he amused hy it, and that the patronage 
you have extended to it may render my authorcraft 
fortunate and successful I hid you farewell — and 
subscribe myself 

Your very true friend, 

T. GWYNNE. 


Belgravia, March ISth^ 1852. 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


In the year 17 — , in the month of November, between the 

hours of twelve and one p.m., the small village of R , in 

one of the midland counties of England, was suddenly enliven- 
ed by the appearance of a pack of fox-hounds, accompanied 
by about a dozen fox-hunters, clad in scarlet, leathers, boots, 
black velvet caps, armed with long hunting-whips, and mount- 
ed each man on a first-rate hunter — such hunters as were 
ridden in the eighteenth century, and are now no longer to 
be seen. 

Around the huntsman’s body wound the melodious old 
hunting-horn, the tired hounds paced soberly on, and men 
and horses showed signs of a hard day’s work. First and 
foremost rode Squire Warren and one or two of his friends — 
Squire Warren kept the fox-hounds. Picture to yourself, O 
reader, a man about sixty, originally six feet in his stockings ^ 
but now somewhat bent ; fleshy without being fat, square- 
shouldered, short necked, strongly jointed ; with a grave but 
good-tempered countenance, hazel eyes, shaggy gray eyebrows 
and a red weather-beaten complexion, strongly contrasting 
with his snow-white stock and tight white periwig : a deep 
bass voice and a loud laugh must be added to the description, 
and there you have the physical portion of Squire Warren. 
The mental portion will not detain us long : simple-minded, 
benevolent, brave as a lion, without an atom of selfishness, 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHERS. 


doting on animals, abhorring the least approach to meanness 
or to any thing ungenerous, beloved and respected by all the 
neighborhood — such was Squire Warren. 

He rode an invaluable bay, that seemed to look on the 
squire as a squirrel or a feather, so easily did he carry him 
over hill and dale, ditch, fence, and gate ; and the Squire had 
six such hunters in his stable. 

More to the rear rode young Jack Warren, the Squire’s 
nephew. I forgot to mention that the Squire was a bachelor : 
he had never had time to marry, he said. The fact was 
that a young lady had cruelly jilted him for a gay Captain 
of Horse, full of dash and swagger, with an oath effectively 
studded here and there in his discourse ; and so the Squire 
hung his head for a time, and then, cheering up, resolutely 
forswore the sex,' and stuck the closer to field-sports, hounds, 
and horses. The good Squire was quite right. 

Jack was the very counterpart of what the Squirt had 
been at his age. Jack was between nineteen and twenty ; 
he was just above six feet in height, strong, wide-shouldered, 
robust, a keen sportsman, but somewhat dull on any point 
but field-sports, awkward and shy in manner, good-hearted, 
but with a slight dash of obstinacy about him : take him all 
in all, a very good young fellow, though not bright. 

He was as well mounted as his uncle, and laughed and 
talked as he rode with the friends around him. As the cav- 
alcade left the village, they passed a long garden wall, lined 
with shrubs and evergreens. At the end of a lawn, soft and 
thick as green velvet, stood a low and many gabled house, 
with three or four sumptuous beech-trees growing around ; 
and as Jack Warren rode past he quickly raised himself in 
his stirrups, gave a hurried look round the garden, and re- 
sumed his seat with a heightened color and smiling counte- 
nance. This was not unperceived by one of his companions, 
who, giving him a thrust in the ribs, with his hunting-whip, 


RETURN OF THE HUNT. 


9 


pronounced him to be a “rogue.” At this sally Jack laughed 
with right good will, and his hazel eyes beamed with delight. 
And so they left the village, and the villagers gazed after 
them, and all the little dogs, that had run away to hide from 
the hounds now sallied forth and harked at the retreating 
pack. About half a mile further on, after following a park 
wall, they arrived at a pair of magnificent iron gates, decor- 
ated with scrolls and flourishes, symmetrical and flowing, 
while the stone gate-posts were surmounted by trophies of 
Roman arms, a la Louis XIV., in the best style of sculpture. 

Here they drew bridle, and, the crack of the Squire’s whip 
drawing the porter from his lodge, the heavy iron gates were 
slowly opened, and men, horses, and dogs entered Denham 
Park, and proceeded along the oak avenue leading to the 
Hall. 

It was a gray, quiet autumn day, the sky covered with 
one uniform gray cloud; not a shadow cast around, not a 
breath of wind to rustle the red brown leaves still adhering 
to the oaks ; distant sounds were distinctly heard through 
the cold still air. The scarlet coats and black caps, the 
various colored horses and parti-colored dogs, came out with 
great effect against the gray and brown tints of the avenue ; 
while the voices and laughter, the crack of a whip, the call 
to a hound, cheerfully broke the surrounding stillness. And 
now the hounds were conducted to the kennel, the horses to 
the stables, while Squire Warren and his guests proceeded 
to the dining-room. Here w^as a sight for tired fox-hunters ! 

A huge and blazing wood fire shining on the dark oak wain- 
scot and floor. A large round table, decked with whitest, 
finest damask cloth, with shining plate, and glass, eight high- 
backed chairs placed around it ; a sideboard covered with 
tankards and other plate, large home-made loaves, cold meat 
and pickles, a goodly array of many bottles ; and a fat butler 
appearing through an open door bearing a huge dish and 


10 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHERS. 


cover which he solemnly placed at the head of the table, 
while two footmen handed in turn three other large dishes, 
which he duly placed, besides several minor ones. 

The butler having announced that the dinner was ready, 
the company took their seats ; the Squire hospitably saying, 
ill the language of his day : 

“ Gentlemen ! I hope you have a stomach !” 

There was boiled beef at the top, there was roast veal at 
the bottom, there was a roast leg of mutton on one side, and 
a boiled turkey on the other, there was a large ham in the 
centre, there were dishes of vegetables at the corners. For 
ten minutes, silence reigned around the board, as far as human 
voices were concerned ; but there was a busy sound of knives 
and forks tattooing on many plates ; and by degrees, as the 
bien-etre produced by a good dinner on the weary frame began 
to be felt, so voice after voice made itself heard, first in short 
sentences : 

“ Capital beef !” 

“ Very good ham !” 

“ Squire, your beer’s better than ever!” 

“ This is a good ending to a good beginning !” 

“ I’ll thank you, sir, for some more pudding to my beef,” 
&c., &c., &c., &c. 

Then anon rurC' was brought on the tapis; and by 
the time the plum puddings, apple pies, custards, and cheese 
were in process of demolition, the renovated hunters were 
full-cry over every step of ground they had gone over, and 
every incident that had occurred during the morning’s sport. 

Fox-hunters in those days were fox-hunters . fox-hunting 
was their life, and they were a race apart. Lawyers and 
doctors were not seen in the field ; feeble boys did not run 
down by railway, have a run, smoke a few doubtful cigars, 
and return home to astonish the family with their splashed 
tops, spattered pinks, and woe-begone countenances — and so 


FOX-HUNTERS OF OLD. 


11 


to bed. Hunters were hunters, and fox-hunters were fox- 
hunters, and hunting was hunting in those times ; and there 
were no mongrel-riders and extraordinary-looking horses seen 
among them. A fine gentleman also was a fine gentleman, 
and meddled not with hunting : he looked on it as a coarse 
and barbarous amusement, and passed his winters 

in town and la belle saison in the country. And so the fox- 
hunters, were, as I said, a race apart ; with their own modes 
and language. And a hunting breakfast was a hunting 
breakfast in that day, and took place ofttimes by candle-light. 
Our modern fox-hunters could not digest such food as our 
sporting ancestors partook of so early : the beef, the ale, the 
stalwart pies, the spiced wines, the hot bread. Fine gentle- 
men took tea and chocolate ; hut fox-hunters — Oh ! no. 

To return to Squire Warren and his party. Dinner being 
concluded, they one and all drew round the well-replenished 
fire. The footmen placed a small round table between every 
two guests, on which were set glasses, port, claret, pipes, and 
a silver tobacco-box. Before the Squire a larger table was 
placed, supporting, in addition to the above-enumerated ob- 
jects, a lordly bowl of smoking punch. 

It was about three o’clock — daylight gently failing added 
to the red glow of the merry firelight. Stiff limbs of aged 
hunters were stretched full length to catch the genial heat; 
younger men, more drowsy, half closed their eyes, and so con- 
versed. Pipes were filled and lighted, the fragrant smoke 
curled around, the hot punch circulated, port and claret van- 
ished, faces grew scarlet, long loud laughter resounded, with 
here and there a long-drawn snore. Merry tales, all more 
or less connected with the chase, went round ; guests dropt 
off one by one, sooner or later, according to the length of road 
that lay between Denham Park and their homes ; and six 
o’clock found Squire Warren and his nephew tete-a-tete : the 
Squire fast asleep in his great chair, his trim periwig hang- 


12 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


ing on one of the knohs thereof, and his handkerchief shading 
his head and face ; his nephew Jack, eating nuts, intently 
musing, nodding, from time to time, waking up to sigh, to 
crack more nuts, take a glass of port, and pat the three super- 
annuated old hounds that basked before the fire. 

Squire Warren would never suffer a horse or dog to be 
destroyed merely because the poor old creature was past 
its work : disease and pain without remedy alone drew a 
death-warrant from him. Old hounds passed a reposeful old 
age near their kind-hearted old master, who would sometimes 
talk to them of their past prowess as if they had been 
tians old hunters roamed happily in snug paddocks and 
about the shady park, and the Squire with smiling face 
would gaze on them with delight, and assure them they 
should never want for any thing as long as he lived. 

Between seven and eight, the old Squire’s sleep and the 
young Squire’s divers evolutions were broken through, by an 
announcement from the fat butler that supper was ready. 

The uncle and ^nephew retired to take that repast into 
Squire Warren’s own room ; a snug wainscoted retreat, or- 
namented with brushes, antlers, whips, spurs, horse-shoes, 
and portraits of favorite hounds and hunters. Here the wind 
sang in one drowsy monotonous note, and here the comforta- 
ble meal was set out ; which being dispatched, the Squire, 
after gazing awhile with fixed look on the flames and embers 
of the fire, and rubbing his shins slowly up and down, sud- 
denly stopped with his hands on his knees, and transferring 
his gaze from the fire to his nephew, he said : 

“ Jack, my dear boy, I take it this is the last cozy evening 
you and I shall pass together for some time to come.” 

“ Hang it !” replied Jack, looking rueful. 

After a pause Squire Warren resumed. 

“ Do you remember your father. Jack ?” 

“ Ay ! I remember him : a tall, thin, pale man, all covered 
I' 


A GRAVE DIALOGUE. 


13 


with velvet and gold, with red heels to his shoes and gold 
clocks to his stockings, and a blue bow to his sword hilt ; and 
he smelt of violets and scented snuff. He’s never been near 
me these ten years ; what’s the good of coming now ? and 
what’s the use of my going to town with him, and ail that ?” 

“ Ah !” sighed the Squire ; “ I’ll telfee what. Jack, Tom’s 
a strange bit o’ blood, and always was, and always will be : 
he takes after your grandmother; you and I, Jack, after my 
father. From the first, nothing would serve Tom’s turn but 
satin, and lace, and fine company, and trying to make me as 
bad as himself; but it didn’t answer. Jack ; 1 was born an 
honest country Squire, and so I’ll live and die, my dear boy.” 

“ So will I,” echoed Jack, sitting very upright, with his 
hands on his knees, in the very same attitude as his uncle; 
“ so will I, if my father will but leave me in peace.” 

“Let’s look at his letter again. Jack, and see what we 
make of it. Here, you read it : your eyes are youngest.” 

Jack obeyed, and with a pause here and there at one or 
two words, he read as follows : 

“London, November 17 — , 

“ My dear Brother, 

“After ten years’ absence I am once more in old En- 
gland ; and a more foggy, cheerless, barbarous country I 
never was in. I have been shut up since my return with a 
sharp fit of the gout, and I fear my foot will never again be 
what it was. I have nearly finished all my business in town, 
chiefly of a diplomatic nature, and I hope soon to embrace 
you and Jack. I can not think of the boy without trem- 
bling ! As heir to the Baronetcy it is essentially necessary 
he should be distinguished above the vulgar, and as son to a 
man who has been so mixed up in such various and import- 
ant diplomatic affairs as I have been, a great deal will be 
expected from him. We must see him in Parliament as a 


14 


THE SCHOOL EOR FATHERS. 


beginning : but on all these subjects we will talk when we 
meet. I will then thank you for your kind care of my boy ; 
who shall no longer be a burden to you. From his writing 
and orthography, as well as his style, I apprehend he will 
have much to learn ; but I have no doubt we shall soon form 
him, and that he will not be behind other young fellows of 
his age : emulation will do a great deal for him. I hope to be 
with you in the evening of Sunday the 25th November. I 
shall bring none of my people but Larrazee my valet, and 
shall therefore not derange you. 

‘^Farewell, my dear Edward. 

“ My love to Jack. 

“ Yr attached Brother, 

“ Thomas Warren.’^ 

“ To Edward Warren, Esq^®.” 

Such was the epistle. Jack folded it up, and said : 

“What’s ‘diplomatic affairs’ and ‘emulation,’ I wonder'? 
Something I sha’n’t like, I warrant : and as for going into par- 
liament, I’d as soon go to prison at once. I’ve no turn for par- 
liament : besides what’s to become of hunting, all the while ?” 

Gld Squire Warren shook his head. 

“ Ah ! what indeed. Jack '?” he said. “ You’ll have to 
give that up, my dear boy : and after the. pretty breeding up 
to the sport you’ve had ! — Ah, well ! I’ll teU’ee what’s at 
the bottom of it, Jack ! Tom’s grown old. Now, as long as 
he could be the ladies’ very humble servant, it was all very 
pretty, and he didn’t want a long-legged fellow like you to 
give notice he had been married, was a widower, had a son. 
That would. never have suited Tom; I know him. But I 
take it the ladies have cast him off, and the gout has got hold 
of him, and he looks toward you, and remembers he has a son. 
Time he should !” 

Here the Squire recommenced rubbing his shins and vieW' 


A DESPERATE RESOLUTION. 


15 


ing the fire. Jack put one hand in his breast, the other in 
his breeches pocket, leant back in his chair, humming a dol- 
orous dirg^e about a departed “ W/izp,” and so passed a quar- 
ter of an hour. 

“ Uncle,” exclaimed Jack, suddenly. 

“ WeU, my boy !” 

“Lydia,” said Jack 

“Ay! Lydia,” replied the Squire. 

“Can’t leave her, you know,” cried Jack. 

“Umph I” quoth his uncle, “what will you dol” 

“ Do !” shouted Jack, “ why„ marry her, to be sure !” 

“ Fairly and softly. Jack — fairly and softly ! She’s a lovely 
creature, gentle and soft as that little pup ‘ Counters' (what 
a sweet creature that is !). But you see, my dear boy, 
Lydia’s only a poor country parson’s daughter, and your fa- 
ther ’ll never consent. Nothing will serve his turn. Jack, 
but tying you, for better for worse, to some Lady Betty or 
Lady Kitty, marked with the srnall-pox, perhaps, but rich 
and a lady of quality. I know Tom !” 

“Hang Lady Betty and Lady Kitty!” cried Jack, in de- 
spair. “I tell you what, uncle : as sure as my name’s John 
Warren, to-morrow after church I’ll pluck up a spirit and 
ask Lydia to have me ! We’ve known one another ever since 
we were as high as the table ; and how happy we should 
be ! Why, isn’t a country gentleman for all the world as 
good as a town fop, bowing and lisping ? No ! hang me if 
I go with my father ! I’ll have Lydia and be happy !” 

“ And a very sensible, happy life you’d have of it, my dear 
boy ; that you would. But you’re bound to obey your fa- 
ther, you know. Jack.” 

“Well,” said Jack, laughing, “'he hasn’t told me I’m not 
to ask Lydia, so I shall make bold to do so to-morrow. I 
didn’t mean to do it till I was of age ; but I can’t help my- 
self now, you see : and I hope she’ll have me !” 


16 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


“Amen,” cried Squire Warren; and, it being past nine, 
uncle and nephew retired to bed, where the Squire, having 
taken a ''night-cap'^ just to close the orifice of the stomach 
was soon in a sound sleep. His nephew, after tossing about 
a little, and thinking of the fatal morrow which was to bring 
his dreaded parent, also closed his eyes, and slept the sleep 
of the young and weary sportsman. 

With the dawn, up rose Jack Warren. A light mist 
was clearing off like folds of gauze, and the early sun cast 
pale horizontal rays through it. Jack decked himself in his 
holiday suit, a Lincoln-green coat of fine cloth, laced with 
silver, a white waistcoat laced with the same, green breeches, 
white silk stockings, plain stock, silver-mounted sword, silver 
buckles, and a silver-laced hat, plain linen, and his hair tied 
and powdered. Jack with a little pains might have made 
a good figure, but his gait was rather slouching, which made 
his shoulders appear too heavy, and poor Jack’s ankles were 
rather massive, and did better in a boot than in a silk stock- 
ing. Still he was a very fine young man, and so thought 
Lydia Freeman ; who, poor young creature, had never had 
the advantage of beholding a well set up, well-taught, well- 
dressed man of fashion. When, therefore, at the Vicarage 
gate, she saw Jack in his Lincoln-green suit and laced hat, 
she smiled, blushed, and her heart beat favorably for the 
young Squire. 

The church bells were ringing as the Vicar, Dr. Freeman, 
in full canonicals — trencher cap in hand. Mistress Freeman 
his good lady, and Mistress Lydia Freeman his daughter, 
sallied forth. 

Squire Warren in blue coat and scarlet waistcoat laced 
with gold, gold-laced hat, and long gold-headed cane, joined 
the Vicar ; while Jack fell to the rear with the ladies, vow- 
ing to himself that he’d be hanged if any thing should ever 
separate him from Lydia. 


A PARTY TO CHURCH. 


17 


Lydia was a charming little being, a year younger than 
her admirer. She was small, fair, plump, and soft as a lit- 
tle bird ; with white skin, pink cheeks, well cut rosy lips, 
ivory teeth, merry but gentle blue eyes, light hair beneath 
her powder, and a little Grecian nose, perfect in form, but 
now rosy pink with the frosty morning air. Her little hands 
and feet were well-shaped and fine, and as she paced along 
by the side of Jack, taking two steps to his one, his vows 
were more vehement than ever ; indeed as they reached the 
church-yard he could scarcely refrain from then and there 
making his offer to her. 

Prayers Jack did not say, sermon he did not hear : his 
eyes were fixed on Lydia. 

She wore a little flat black velvet hat, placed with co- 
quetry over her right eye, and tied at the back of her head 
with long black velvet ribbons, a black velvet round her 
throat, a pale blue cardinal trimmed with lace, a dress of 
the same with cherry knots, and her curling hair powdered 
snow-white. Her eyes were demurely fixed on her book, 
and she took no notice of poor Jack, though she could feel 
his eyes fixed on her face during the whole of the service. 

The Vicar having come to the conclusion of his short but 
excellent sermon, the usual hurrying of hob-nailed shoes re- 
tiring from a country church was heard, and the round backs 
vested in clean white frocks, accompanied by scarlet cloaks, 
emerged one after the other, exchanging the damp and musty 
^ir of the old church for the fresh autumn air without. 

The Vicar remaining awhile in the vestry, the Squire gal- 
lanted Mistress Freeman home, followed by Jack and Lydia, 
and saluted on all sides with bows and little bob-courtesies. 

“ Lydia,” said Jack, “ my father comes to-day.” 

“ So I heard,” said Lydia, stroking her little swansdown 
muff. 

And I shall have to go and live in London with him,” 


18 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


continued Jack, kicking a stone spitefully. Lydia said no- 
thing. 

“You don’t care a pin about it, Lydia, I see.” Lydia 
looked up at him, but said nothing. Jack saw tears in her 
gentle blue eyes. 

“Look here, Lydia,” cried Jack vehemently, doubling his 
fist and striking out at nothing : “if you’ll have me. I’ll see 
them all at old Harry. I shall have a gQod fortune, and 
we’ll be as happy as the day’s long.” 

Lydia said nothing, but she smiled at Jack, and dried her 
tears. 

“ Come now, Lydia, yes or no ? It’s soon said,” cried 
Jack, stretching forth his brown hand to her. “Yes or no? 
Don’t be down-hearted.” 

“Yes,” lisped Lydia, laughing and putting her little plump 
hand with its black silk mitten into Jack’s extended palm. 

“ That’s my good girl !” cried Jack, with flashing eyes 
and crimson face. “ Now we must tell the Doctor, get his 
consent, and settle it all before my father comes. ’Gad ! I 
wish he could make short work of it, and marry us at 
once !” 

“ Hallo, Jack !” exclaimed his uncle, as they all stopped 
at the gate of the garden wall Jack had looked over the day 
before ; “ you look as if you were just in at the death ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha !” and he patted Jack not gently on the shoulder. 

“ Won’t you come in, gentlemen ?” asked good Mistress 
Freeman, meekly. 

The gentlemen assented, but no sooner had they reached 
the hall door, than Jack, who seemed suddenly to have come 
to life, stalked away, saying : 

“ I’ll go and meet the Doctor.” 

And so he did, twirling his cane and smiling triumph- 
antly. 

“ Well ! my young friend, how wags the world with you ?” 


A SUDBEN CHECK. 


19 


cried Dr. Freeman, as Jack advanced toward him : “fairly, I 
should say, and smoothly, to judge from your gait and air.” 

“ You’re quite right there, sir !” replied Jack, wringing the 
Vicar’s proffered hand. The Vicar smiled at the pain Jack 
in his ardor inflicted, hut Jack perceived it not, and before they 
reached the garden-gate had put Dr. Freeman au courant of 
all that had taken place. Jack had never talked so much in 
his life before. ^ 

The Vicar looked very grave, and rubbed the tip of his ear 
with perplexity. Jack having said his say, ceased twirling 
his cane, and looked round for the consent and approbation he 
expected. When he beheld how the Vicar rubbed his ear, 
pursed up his lips, and stepped slowly, he suddenly stopt and 
gasped out : 

“ You’re not going to say no, sir ! You’ve known me since 
I was nine years old. You know I’m a plain honest fellow, 
and — ” 

“ Stop, stop, stop, my good lad,” said the Vicar, gently 
putting his fat hand on Jack’s arm : “ not so fast, not so fast. 
Are you aware you have just taken a very important step in 
life ? You’re not of age, you know. Have you Sir Thomas 
Warren’s consent?” 

“ No, sir ! That’s it ; I want to get it all settled at once 
before he comes. When he sees Lydia and knows you, and 
finds it’s all going smooth, and the Squire consenting too, ten 
to one he lets me marry and live here in peace, as an English 
country gentleman should do.” 

The Vicar laughed, and replied : 

“ That will never do, my young friend, never. You are 
heir to a baronetcy and a fine fortune — ” 

“ So much the better,” interrupted Jack, vehemently : 
“ pray isn’t Lydia worthy of that, and a good deal more,^ sir ?” 

“That is another question. Jack; listen to me: What 
would your father say if he found you engaged to a poor 


20 


THE SCHOOL EOR FATHERS. 


country parson’s (laughter without a penny to her fortune, the 
father consenting, and the matter all settled ?” 

“ Think me a vastly lucky dog, to be sure !” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense ! He’d think you a noddy, and me 
an old rascal. It can’t be, my good friend : it can’t be.” 

Hang it ! No, sir, you don’t mean that. . I will have 
her. I’ll—” 

“ Gently, my good lad, don’t let your feelings run away 
with you. Before I can possibly give my consent you must 
have Sir Thomas Warren’s. If you can get that, why 
then—” 

‘‘ You’ll give yours,” shouted Jack. 

The Vicar bowed and smiled, and Jack again crushed his 
hand with fervor. 

On entering the parlor, as it was called in those days. Dr. 
Freeman pinched Lydia’s soft cheek, while she blushed and 
laughed, and looked away. 

“ Are you aware, my dear,” he said to his wife, “ what our 
little miss here has been about ? Ah ! Lyddie, Lyddie, 
you’re a saucy little puss! And as for Master Jack there, 
he’s a rogue !” 

Mistress Freeman having been informed of what had taken 
place, shed a few tears, kissed Lydia, and eke Jack ; the two 
squires were kept to dinner, and the afternoon past in dis- 
cussing the mighty subject in hand: looked upon by Jack as 
such a fine scheme for evading Sir Thomas, London, and the 
breaking for a diplomat and fine gentleman. 

The ladies sided with Jack, and saw nothing impossible or 
startling in the plan. The two old gentlemen, at the first 
glance, saw where the difficulties lay ; but all their views 
were looked down upon by the other party. 

Dr. Freeman was a straightforward, sensible man, about 
Squire’s Warren’s age ; an orthodox churchman, looking upon 
Dissenters and Homan Catholics, Guy Faux and the Pope, 


THE FIRST KISS. 


2 ^ 


to be decidedly canaille cifiretienn ^' — an epithet by which 
a dandy Abbe was wont to address a plebeian congregation. 
He was passionately fond of his garden and the classics ; 
interfered not in parish squabbles ; kept a hard-working young 
curate, who sighed in vain for the fair Lydia; rode about on 
a fat cob ; doffed his clerical periwig of an evening for a 
black velvet night-cap ; and enjoyed the great spirits of 
Greece and Rome over a sober pipe and silver tankard. The 
parish was small and well-to-do, and the good Vicar lived in 
clover with his wife and only child; WTote letters in Latin 
verse to old college chums, who now and then became his 
guests, as he in turn became theirs ; cultivated philosophy 
and his garden, and glided down life’s stream like a wise and 
good man, without kicking and struggling. 

** Jack, my dear boy, we must be off,” cried Squire Warren, 
as the time wore on : “ Tom will be upon us before we know 
where we are !” 

The Squire rose briskly and took his hat ; as for poor Jack, 
his spirits were beginning to fall : he arose slowly and sighed, 
and took his hat and cane, and put on his sword with the air 
of a man proceeding to execution. However, in the stir of 
leave-taking, he managed to give and receive a kiss ; the first 
that had been exchanged between them since his and Lydia’s 
childhood. 

The walk home was not particularly lively or cheerful. 
Jack, in spite of himself, began to see matters rather gloomily, 
and both he and the good old Squire felt that their separation 
was at hand. Now, as he had had sole charge of his nephew 
since Jack lost his mother at three years old, and as uncle and 
nephew loved one another as father and son, the prospect 
before them was any thing but cheering. The beauty of the 
day was gone, the wind blew cold, and, as they reached the 
park gates, a thin chilling rain began to fall. 

They retired to Squire Warren’s little room, eying the wet 


22 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


window panes, and the rooks settling in the tall leafless trees 
for the night, and so waited in silence for the unwelcome 
arrival of Sir Thomas Warren, Bart. 

Every now and then the silence was broken by short 
phrases. 

“ I thought I heard him. Jack !’* 

‘‘ I hear wheels 

‘‘Only the wind in the chimney 

“ Perhaps he won’t come, uncle.” 

At last Squire Warren, striking his thigh, exclaimed : 

“ Egad ! my lad there he is : no mistake this time !” 

Jack opened his mouth and listened. The sound of a 
heavy vehicle slowly approaching, combined with the loud 
barking of house dogs, announced an arrival. 

“ Bun down, my dear boy, and receive him ; I’ll follow you 
in a jiffy.” 

Jack obeyed, and reached the hall just as a loud peal was 
rung at the hall door. Opening it he perceived a huge trav- 
eling coach drawn by post horses, and running down the stone 
steps he stood breathless at the coach door. A thin yellow 
face, decked with a white satin night-cap embroidered in gold 
and colors, and surmounted by a gold laced hat, peered forth ; 
a thin white hand holding a cambric handkerchief over the 
mouth and nose, was also visible ; and, after a pair of cold 
gray eyes had surveyed Jack from head to foot, from beneath 
their thick black brows, a thin and muffled voice proceeding 
from the folds of the cambric handkerchief, exclaimed : 

“ Is your master at home ?” 

Jack started, but answered not. 

“ Art deaf, sirrah !” resumed the voice pettishly : “ is your 
master, Squire Warren, at home ?” 

“ Yes !” faltered poor Jack, with a blush. 

“ Open the door, then ! Zounds, don’t keep me in the rain 
and mist, you booby !” 


A FATHER’S GREETING. 


23 


“ Here’s a nice beginning !” thought Jack. 

Just then Squire Warren appeared from the hall, followed 
by the butler and attendant footmen. 

Tom, my dear fellow,” he shouted, “ how art thou ? 
Come in, come in! You’re heartily welcome to Denham, 
brother ; and we’ll do our best to entertain ’ee.” 

Your rascally knave there gave me but a scurvy wel- 
come, Ned. The lad seems half-saved!” 

“ That ! he !” cried the Squire, laying his hand on Jack’s 
shoulder, “why, Tom, that’s Jack. Help your father out, 
you rogue, and embrace him. What the devil did you take 
him for, Tom V' ^ 

A footman,” said Sir Thomas. “ Larrazee, donnez-moi 
le bras.” 

A sprightly Frenchman stretched forth his arm, on which 
the baronet, heavily leaning, entered the hall; and having 
there embraced his brother and son, they proceeded to the 
room the two squires had just left, while Larrazee and the 
servants carried Sir Thomas’s many packages to the room set 
apart for him. 

Sir Thomas was as tall as the other Warrens, thin as a 
skeleton ; his skin, yellow, delicate, fine, and soft as wax, was 
lined by little wrinkles. His eyes were sunk and cold, his 
nose and lips finely chiseled, his chin was small and pointed., 
his expression self satisfied yet peevish. He had once had 
a splendid hand, leg, and foot. The hand was white as 
snow, but thin and shrunk ; the long leg still well shaped 
and fine, but withered and attenuated : a very roue looking 
old leg ; the foot small but bony, with evidences of gout hav- 
ing been there. He wore a dark violet velvet coat, waist- 
coat, and breeches, quite plain, for traveling ; laced and 
ruffled linen, fringed gloves, red-heeled shoes, with plain 
gold buckles, and over all a well-furred green velvet wrap- 
per. He carried a light gold-headed cane with gold and 


24 THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 

violet tassel, his sword he had left in the swordcase of his 
coach. 

Ah !’’ he sighed, as he sank into a chair by the fireside, 
this climate of yours is a rascally climate, Ned ; a very 
rascally climate : it will be the death of me. You look 
much as you did ten years ago and the Baronet took a 
pinch of snuff from a small French gold box, embellished 
with pastoral gallantries of the finest jeweler’s work, in 
various-colored gold. 

Squire Warren, rubbing his hands, replied : 

Why, Tom, plenty of fresh air, up early, out rain or shine, 
a good run with the hounds, plenty of work for the body, 
very little for the head, roast beef, home-brewed strong and 
good, and a cheerful mind, the deuce is in it if a man don’t 
wear well with all that !” 

“Ah!” again sighed Sir Thomas, and leaning back in his 
chair, he half closed his eyes, and steadily surveyed Jack 
through his half-opened, wrinkled lids. 

Poor Jack, who was standing before the fire observing hjs 
parent with curiosity and astonishment, felt for the first time 
in his life, as the Baronet’s gaze remained fixed upon him, 
the uncomfortable sensation of not knowing what to do with 
his arms and legs, or which way to look, whether to the 
front, right, left, up, or down. Very different at that mo- 
ment was the abashed awkward young squire, from the same 
person in the morning proposing for Lydia, and feeling no 
difficulty in any thing. He shuffled first on one foot, then 
on the other, shifted his hands about, blushed, coughed, and 
hung his head. 

“ How the deuce shall I ever tell him about Lydia ? 
Hang it !” thought Jack. 

“My dear child,” said Sir Thomas, speaking slowly and 
deliberately, “ no wonder I took you for a footman. A more 
unformed, awkward young fellow I never beheld : never! I 


A POLITE EDUCATION. 


25 


shall give you every advantage, and superintend your educa- 
tion myself. I see you have not the least notion of present- 
ing yourself; your tournure is stiffi ungainly, and more that 
of a boxer than of a gentleman. You must endeavor to ac- 
quire Vair noble : but I shall put you immediately into the 
hands of Dupuis and Couderc, who will instruct you in danc- 
ing and fencing, and supple you ; and the 'inanege will soon 
give you a proper seat on horseback. I shall employ Lord 
Langley’s tailor for you, as well as his hair-dresser : indeed, 
I shall propound his Lordship to you as a model to form 
yourself on. You must acquire a knowledge of the mathe- 
matics, history, and polite literature in general, wdth a 
thorough knowledge of French, la langue universelle. The 
French ambassador’s chaplain, I’Abbe Potelle, will be your 
instructor in that and mathematics ; and I do hope you will 
endeavor to second my efibrts, and be an ornament to society 
and your family.” 

“Yes,” said Jack, in the hoarsest and gruffest of all shy 
voices, wishing himself and his father a hundred miles apart. 

“ Good gods ! what a voice !” cried Sir Thomas, shutting 
his eyes, and covering his ears with his hands. 

Squire Warren came to the rescue. 

“You’re too hard on the boy, Tom : ’gad you are. You 
should see him with the hounds, hear him give the view 
hallo ! he’d wake the dead ! He’s afraid of nothing ! he’d 
ride the devil, and tame him too ; and the lad’s as modest 
as a lamb : you’d never find out his qualities from his 
own showing. All the dogs love him, and the horses too, 
and there’s not a man in the county for miles round that 
doesn’t like and admire young Jack Warren ! They all 
say he’s following in my steps, every one of ’em : don’t they 
Jack ?” 

“ Ay 1” in smothered tone, from the object addressed. 

Sir Thomas smiled superciliously, and tapped his gold 


26 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


snuff-box, crossing bis long thin legs, and clearing his voice 
to recommence his observations. 

“ 2'oc, Toc''‘ at the door stopped him, and to Jack’s in- 
finite relief, in stept Larrazee ; who, bowing at the door, slid 
up to his master, saying in a low voice : 

“ M. le Baronette, veut-il passer a son appartement V 

The Baronet nodded, rose, put out his hand for his valet’s 
arm, and retired, saying : 

“ Good-night, gentlemen, I shall not see you again to- 
night. Larrazee wdll take care of my supper ; and pray fol- 
low your own occupations and amusements without regard to 
me. Larrazee is accustomed to my modes, and will attend 
to me. Good-night !” 

“ Mon Dieu, monseigneur ! quel froid : vous en mourrez !” 
Larrazee was heard to say as they walked off together. 

“Did you ever see such a man?” said Jack, when the 
door was shut ; “ I can’t live with him, and form myself on 
Lord Langley, and learn French and heaven knows what 
all I What’s the good of it ? Hang it !” 

“ He’ll never consent to your match with Lydia, Jack.” 

Jack stamped, and plunging his hands in his breeches 
pockets, paced up and down the room in silence, with a 
frown knitting his eyebrows together, and teeth tight set. 
Squire Warren clasped his hands over his ample chest, and 
fell asleep till supper time. 

Meanwhile, Sir Thomas and Larrazee pursued their way 
to Sir Thomas’s apartment, preceded by a servant carrying 
a light. They passed through the spacious, well-warmed 
dinner-room, where the red firelight shone on the round table 
spread out for three persons. 

“ Monseigneur soupe-t-il avec ces messieurs ?” inquired Lar- 
razee. 

“ Ma foi, nong replied his master, with a very British 
twang : for Sir Thomas, though he spoke French with the 


M. LARARZEE AND THE COOK. 


27 


greatest fluency, and was thoroughly master of every little 
turn and idiom, had no ear, and never couldr manage to pro- 
nounce it otherwise than as the veriest John Bull. How- 
ever, he flattered himself that no one would know him from 
a Parisian, and Larrazee boldly asserted that such was in 
effect the case. 

“ Monseigneur ne fera pas de toilette ce soir 1” asked the 
valet, as Sir Thomas sat down on a sofa Larrazee had drawn 
before the fire, and slowly and heavily drawing up his legs, 
stretched himself out full length, with a weary, long-drawn 
sigh. Pie shook his head in reply, and told Larrazee to serve 
his supper as soon as possible, and to leave him to take a nap 
eng attong-dong.'' 

M Larrazee bowed, and gently closing the door, dived 
into the offices. He soon made his way into the kitchen, 
where a large box had, by his orders, been transported. 

“ Ah ! my good lady,” he cried, sliding up to the cook, 
who was busily engaged at the kitchen fire, I shall not 
deranger you, not at all. Pardon, mademoiselle !” to the 
kitchen-maid, who had jostled him with a great saucepan she 
was lifting from the fire. 

“ My stars 1” exclaimed the cook, an old servant of the 
Squire’s, fat and well-looking ; “ why, what be that ? I take 
it you’re Sir Thomas’s French frog of a mounseer !” 

“ To be sure, cook,” said her handmaid : “ why^ what a 
fright !” 

“ Yes, ray dear ladies, and your very humble serviteur 

With these words the Frenchman, drawing forth a bunch 
of keys, knelt down before his box. 

“Just look!” cried the cook. “Well, mounseer! what 
do you want down here ? The kitchen’s no place for men ; 
and Sukey ’ll pin a dishclout to your tail : won’t you, Sukey ?” 

“ Yes, that I will. Servants’ hall’s for the men, moun- 
seer !” 


28 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


“ Ell efiet, mesdames, en effet !” said Larrazee, opening his 
box and taking out a parcel containing a snow-white jacket, 
apron, and cotton cap. 

“ Come, none o’ your gibberish and impudence here 1” said 
the cook. 

“ Oh !” shrieked Sukey, “ Oh ! cook !” 

“ Oh !” shrieked the cook, “ Oh ! Sukey !” 

And then, both en duo : 

“ The brute’s undressing hisselfT^ 

Larrazee had taken off his coat and hung it over a chair, 
had taken off his smart powdered wig and hung it on a peg 
in the wall. Hearing the ladies’ shrieks he turned round, 
and grinning, showed a row of white teeth, which, combined 
with his sharp little black eyes and well-shorn head, gave 
him very much the appearance of a monkey. 

“ Ape !” screamed the cook. 

“ Belzehub !” screamed Sukey. 

“ Eh ! mesdames,” said M. Larrazee, putting on his white 
jacket and night-cap, “ why for this rows ? You will see 
me cook a pree-iy souper, yes !” 

“ A night-cap on before we girls !” shrieked the cook ; “if 
that’s your French manners, presa^'ve us from ’em. 

God save the King !” 

Larrazee laughed, and adding an apron to his costume, 
drew from his box a saucepan, a little brazier, and a bag of 
charcoal. 

“Ah! voyons — un poulet — rat-tan-plan ! et vous voila!” 
he cried, with an air of satisfaction, as he turned up his 
sleeves and lighted his fire. 

“ What was you pleased to say about us, mounseer ? and 
what are you lighting up that trumpery charcoal thing for ? 
— smelling !” said the cook. 

“ My pree-ty young lady — Meese Sukey, I think — will you 
indicate, if you please, where the chickens lodge ?” said Lar- 


FEENCH COOKERY IN ENGLAND. 


29 


razee, bowing to blowzy Sukey, and taking a long sharp 
knife from his box. 

“ What do you want with master’s free-born British fowls ? 
— haven’t you got any frogs in your box? Don’t tell him, 
Sukey — I’m sure I won’t !” said the cook. 

“’Pristi en voila une de cuisiniere !” said Larrazee; “now, 
madanae the cook, I respect your talents — and yours, made- 
moiselle ! I only ask the least little bit of any chicken to pre- 
pare the souper of Sire Yarenne^ my good master. Aliens ! 
you can not deny a ree-quest so reasonable !’ ’ and he stretched 
himself up, cracked all his fingers at one volley, arched his 
eyebrows, and looked triumphantly at the two British art- 
istes. 

“ Hoity-toity ! supper, indeed ! and pray, mounseer jpar- 
ley-voo, why can’t your master eat my supper, the same as 
Squire Warren and young master does? Answer me that I 
Scotch collops, broiled steek^ and shrid onions ; fried pudding 
and Welsh rabbit to follow ; custards and tipsy cake. What 
have you to say against that? None o’ your French messes, 
covered up with butter, so as you donH know what you’re 
eating of.” 

“ It is ex-ceZ-lent, madame ! Diable de femme vas ! But 
my poor master has a very little health, you see, so delicate ! 
your good heart would bleed, quite. Aliens ! where is this 
lee-tle chicken, so lee-tle, nearly nothing !” and M. Larrazee 
hung his head and looked insinuating. 

After a little more skirmishing. Goody Eccles, the fat cook, 
relented. 

“ Get him that fowl out o’ the larder, Sukey, and let’s see 
what the ape ’ll be after. There’s plenty of frogs in the pond 
in the kitchen garden, mounseer.” 

“ Thank you, madame, thank you. Ah ! Meese Sukey, 
the charming chicken ! It is all your portrait. Thank you ; 
very amiable ! Vache espagnolle, vas !” 


30 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Goody Eccles sent up the Squire’s supper, and then, with 
arms a-kimbo, watched Larrazee’s proceedings. 

“ Some creme and a hit of butter, my good lady, if you 
please !” 

“Give it him, Sukey ; they can’t do without their messes. 
Well, for my part, I likes to know what I eat.” 

Larrazee had soon cooked an excellent delicate little dish, 
which he served upon a little silver service he took from his 
magic box. He put on his coat and wig, and, bowing to his 
late aggressors, hurried up to Sir Thomas’s room. He set 
out the supper on a little table, which he placed by the sofa ; 
brought a bottle of Burgundy from a box in the next room, 
and, putting a napkin under his arm, drew himself up to 
w^ait on his master. 

“ Ce plat est des meillioTy Larrazee !” 

“ Ah ! monseigneur !” and Larrazee spread out his arms, 
and, making a leg, smiled and bowed. 

After Sir Thomas had supped and been furnished with a 
cup of coflee and a book, Larrazee retired into the next room, 
and gayly made his supper off the remains of the chicken and 
wine and a great deal of bread ; while Squire Warren’s 
domestics in kitchen and hall were laughing at the little thin 
Frenchman, and regaling themselves on the “best of meat” 
and beer. To be sure, they were in better condition than 
Larrazee : some of them hovering on the confines of apo- 
plexy. 

However, before they w^ere all deposited in their respective 
beds the next evening, they altered their opinion of “ Moun- 
seer Frog,” and opined it was a great pity that “Mr. Laza- 
rus,” as they called him, should be “ onhj a Frenchman,'' in- 
stead of an Englishman “ born and bred." 

This sudden change in public opinion arose from the fol- 
lowing circumstance : 

After “Mr. Lazarus” had attended the coiicher' of Sir 


A DANCE IN THE Kl-TCHEN. 


31 


Thomas, and left him to sink to rest by the subdued light of 
the fire and his alabaster night-lamp, he descended to the 
servants’ hall, violin in hand, ancf opened the door just as the 
butler was emerging with Squire Warren’s well-spiced '^night- 
caps 

“ Well ! my good friends, this very cold night shall I make 
you dance ? And your ladies I where are your ladies ? go and 
pray them to do you the honor of dance with you ! Aliens, 
en gaillards !” and with these words M. Larrazee, striking 
up a brisk country-dance in first-rate style, spun round the 
room as lightly as a spider hanging by his web ; to the in- 
finite surprise of the well-fed, heavy bodied, and heavy-mind- 
ed gentry around him. W^hen he had three times capered 
round the hall, and wound up with a light entrechat, he struck 
the table with his bow. “ Come, we must debarass ourselves 
of him ! Allons ! fetch the ladies — push that table, and I 
will arrange for the music.” So M. Larrazee perched a 
chair on a side table, and himself on the chair, and off went 
the fiddle again, as he beat time with his foot, and watched 
the servants pushing the long table on one side. 

“ And the ladies — and the ladies 1” 

“ Here they be, mounseer, as large as life !” cried the senior 
footman, as the ladies entered with his junior, who had fetch- 
ed the female household and their gossips from the kitchen 
fire. The ladies tittered and giggled a great deal, and M. 
Larrazee, bowing to them, cried in an authoritative voice — 

“ Gentlemen ! choose your ladies ! At your places ! In 
line ! .Allez ! Up the middle, and back ! down once more ! 
cross your hands, and back once more ! — Poussette — up the 
middle, et cetera! Now ! go ?” and raising his foot he gave 
a stamp, and his fiddle seemed to shriek and sing with de- 
light. 

Off pranced fat cook, Sukey, Polly, and the other ladies ; 
off pranced the butler, grooms, and heavy, stiff brown and 


32 


THE SCHOOL EOE FATHERS. 


yellow liveries : up they went, round they went ; stumping 
kicking, plunging, laughing, panting : never was such a 
dance. And Larrazee playing such a variety of tunes, some- 
times adding his voice to his fiddle, sometimes calling out : 
“ Attention ! en mesure done ! Ah ! les gaillards, les flan- 
drins ! Poussette, I tell to you ! tra la la ! tra la la, tra, lira- 
lira-la I Eh ! allez done ! Sac-a-pappie ! lira-lira-lira-la ! 
Now 1 change your sides, and back once more — that middle 
and back, you know — set on your jpartnh'e, allez ! go away ! 
the night too cold to stop ! Tra la-la, la, la, la, la I Not 
to be so rude, gentlemen, if you please ! Now ! Sire Roger 
de Coverle, allons ! un peu solemnels ! Go !” 

In intervals of rest the gentlemen thought they could not 
show their sense of “ Mr. Lazarus’s” kindness better than by 
going one after another and handing him up a huge brown 
pitcher, with the observation : 

“ You must be dry, old boy I” 

“ Mr. Lazarus,” playing desultory snatches on his fiddle, 
which he held as a guitar and played with his thumb, grace- 
fully bowing over it and shaking his head, refused the profier- 
ed pitcher, but begged for a little sugar and water ! The 
request raised a roar of laughter, but finding he meant it, he 
was supplied with it ; and then the ball continued, and was 
prolonged to a late hour. 

After this Larrazee was allowed to cook any thing he 
chose, and to do just as he thought fit. He won all the John 
Bulls’ hearts ; with one exception : the heart of a fat, heavy, 
sulky groom, who worshiped Sukey, and thought Sukey look- 
ed too kindly on the Frenchman. Hence muttered threats 
about “ wringing necks” and “ knocking heads off,” and sud- 
den boltings into the kitchen, and summary ejections there- 
from. 

Sir Thomas Warren had been three days his brother’s 
guest, and Jack had not ventured to say any thing to him 


COMING- TO THE POINT. 


33 


about Lydia : his father awed and paralyzed him ; why or 
how he could not tell. Bold as a lion when he was not pres- 
ent, he vowed to beard and brave him. The Baronet appear- 
ed, eyed Jack with a dissatisfied mien, made observations on 
his demeanor and personal appearance, which so subdued 
poor Jack he could only blush, and speak in the hoarse, gruff 
voice that so irritated his father’s sickly nerves. 

The Vicar asked him what he had said to Sir Thomas, and 
what was Sir Thomas’s reply. Jack felt like a simpleton, 
and, not daring to own the truth before Lydia, only stammer- 
ed and said he would tell him next time. The Vicar smiled 
and shook his head, Lydia walked to the window. Mistress 
Freeman coughed : not a word was spoken. This wound 
Jack up to a pitch of frenzy, and he rushed home, determined 
to confront his father and stand the worst. Bouncing into 
his uncle’s room to tell him his intention, he only found his 
father alone, sipping his afternoon chocolate. 

“ My dear Jack,” he cried, his cup arrested half way be- 
tween the saucer and his lips : “ for Heaven’s sake tell me 
if you think that a proper mode of entering a room ? 1 thought 
the house was on fire, or your uncle in an apoplectic fit ! 
Where have you been, what have you been doing ? What 
a vulgar heat you are in ! This will never do, sir, never ! 
Just leave the room and re-enter it like a gentleman !” 

Jack had walked very fast, the room was very warm, he 
felt all his arteries thumping and beating, and his cheeks, 
nose, and ears, burning — 

“ If I go out,” thought he, “ I shall never come in again. 
Now or never ! Hang it, who’s afraid ?” He clenched his 
fist, pressed it on his breast, and taking a deep gasp he said : 

“ Sir, it’s no use going on saying nothing : I — ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, clear your voice, and don’t speak so 
loud. You destroy me !” 

Without heeding his father. Jack continued rapidly : 


34 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


“ I think you had better leave me here ; for I — I’m — you 
see — because I — ” 

“ My dear child, do try and express yourself distinctly and 
calmly. What are you coming to 'I - Egad, I expect to hear 
you have committed murder or highway robbery. Now pro- 
ceed I” and Sir Thomas having deposited his cup on the sil- 
ver waiter beside him, leant his elbow on that of the chair, 
his cheek on his hand, crossed one leg over the other, and 
gently tapped his pointed velvet-clad knee with his gold snuff- 
box. 

“ I’m all attention,” he said, and shut his eyes. The gray 
eyes being closed. Jack felt more at his ease. 

“ Well then, sir, you see I’m going to be married, and want 
your consent.” 

Sir Thomas opened his eyes and fixed them on Jack, with- 
out altering his position or ceasing to tap his knee. 

Oh!” said the Baronet, as if he had just been informed 
that it was raining, or what time it was. 

Jack was crimson; he felt even his back blush, and did 
not know whether to swear or run away. 

His feelings found vent in a hoarse sheepish laugh. His 
father again closed his eyes, and murmuring : 

“ You will soon be very difierent, I trust and hope,” he 
continued aloud : “ and pray what pretty little miss is to be 
the future Lady Warren ?” 

“ Mistress Lydia Freeman,” stammered a gruff and trem- 
ulous voice. 

“Oh!” 

A silence. 

“ Who may Mistress Lydia Freeman be ?” inquired Sir 
Thomas, rubbing his smoothly shorn chin, and gaping. 

“Dr. Freeman’s daughter.” 

“Oh!” 

Another silence. ^ 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 


35 


Pray is Dr. Freeman the village apothecary!” 

“No, sir — the Vicar.” 

“Oh!” 

Sir Thomas slowly took a pinch of snuff, and then examin- 
ing all the little figures of his box very listlessly and sleepily, 
he said : 

“ And pray, if it is not an impertinent question, when is 
the blissful event to take place ?” 

“ Directly I have your consent, sir !” 

“Oh!” 

, Silence. Jack wiping his face and forehead. 

“ How much has your Phillis to her fortune ?” 

“ Little or nothing, sir !” 

“ The Vicar has consented ?” 

“ He would not, sir, all I could do, till I’ve your consent.” 

“ Indeed !” — memorandum — “ a deep rogue or a great fool.” 

Jack’s worst voice of all now demanded in an anxious stran- 
gulated tone : 

“ Will you say yes, sir?” 

“ Yes !” replied Sir Thomas, carelessly. 

“Yes!” echoed Jack, like ''rude Boreas,'' and clapping 
his hands, darted toward the door, crying : 

“ Thank you, sir ! I’ll just run back to the Vicarage and 
tell them !” 

“ Come back, sir ! I’ve one or two little observations to 
make to you first. Sit down !” 

Poor Jack, fascinated by the supercilious gray eyes, slunk 
back, and sat down, his hands on his knees, and his back 
very much bowed. 

“ By this time, my dear boy, you must be aware, in some 
degree, how very deficient you are by nature and through 
want of education, in all the thousand-and-one little points 
that constitute a polished gentleman. All this I intend to 
remedy, de mon mi’Oo, and you must co-operate with me. 


36 


THE SCHOOL EOH FATHERS. 


Now, with a wife, my dear Jack, this would he impossible : 
you would go through life the bear you are at present— hunt- 
ing, feeding, and sleeping. By the time you were thirty, you 
would be encumbered with eight or nine children, be tired 
of your wife, and wish yourself and family at the devil !” 

“ But you said ‘yes,’ sir,” Jack ventured to observe. 

“ I did, and I say so still ; but I shall be so bold as to beg 
you to put off your wedding-day for two years, when I shall 
be delighted to repeat the ‘yes’ I have this day uttered.” 

Jack sighed, or rather groaned. 

“ My word,” said Sir Thomas, in answer to the" groan, 
“is as the law of the Medes and Persians, Jack. I have 
only to add that I am sorry you could not have told me this 
little adventure before, and without all the bouncing, blush- 
ing, and choking, you have been treating me to. I hope I 
shall never again hear you give way to that idiotic laugh 
about nothing; and now you may go, and take those old 
hounds with you : they make me quite sick !” 

Jack called the old dogs, and escaped as an arrow from a 
bow. 

“ Now, sir !” he cried, as he rushed into the parlor at the 
Vicarage, “we only want your consent. My father says 
‘yes !’” 

“My service to you!” replied Dr. Freeman, looking full 
of astonishment. “ Sir Thomas consented, did he ? How 
so ? I can’t make it out at all !” 

“ He said ‘ at once, as if he didn’t care about it.” 

“ Well ! this passes my comprehension ; quite passes it — 
quite^^ said the Vicar, screwing up his placid face : of which 
Lydia’s was the counterpart, only young and feminine. The 
Doctor had been very handsome in his day. “ And what is 
to become of your sojourn in London, my young friend, and 
your training for a fine gentleman, and a parliament man ? 
I can not make it out !” 


AN UNCONDITIONAL CONSENT. 


37 


Jack hung his head, and sighed as he answered : “ Ah ! 

there’s the rub. My father won’t let me marry for two years, 
and he says his word’s the law of the meads, and Proosians^ 
which I take to be something very positive !” 

“ Oh ! say you so ?” and Dr. Freeman’s face relaxed from 
the air of puzzled surprise lately depicted on it. “ I see. 
Jack, I see it all, my good friend. How very good !” and the 
Vicar smiled and chuckled all to himself 

“ How ? what, sir ] I don’t understand ! what do you 
meanU’ cried Jack, looking very vague. 

“ Ah ; well, my dear lad, I give my consent with all my 
heart, whether for to-day or two years hence ; but taking all 
things into consideration, if you follow my advice, you and 
Lyddie will not engage yourselves, but see how matters stand 
this time two years.” 

“ But we are engaged, and two years will make no differ- 
ence. After all, they’ll soon slip by.” 

“Now, Jack, listen to reason. You’ve never been farther 
from home than your hunter has carried you after a fox. 
You know nothing of life ; you can form no idea of town and 
its pleasures, to which Sir Thomas and his friends will intro- 
duce you. Lyddie, dear little puss, is the only pretty young 
thing you have ever seen, and you will see hundreds of town 
beauties my little Lyddie couldn’t hold a candle to. You’ll 
come back a very different man to what you are now. All 
your tastes and views will most probably be entirely changed ; 
you will not see things as you see them now : you will look on 
me as an old fogie, and on Lyddie as a rustic little maiden 
only fit to milk cows and churn butter. Take advice, Jack ; 
don’t engage yourself, my young friend.” 

“ Hang it, sir ! don’t turn against me ; don’t persuade 
Lydia of all you’ve been saying to me.” 

“ 1 only spoke for your own sake, my young friend ; but 
mark my words — long engagements are bad things, and if you 


38 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


and my little puss enter into one, you’ll live to repent it ; you 
especially, Jack.” 

“ Well, but I know my own mind, sir. My father will 
never, as long as he lives, make a fop of honest Jack Warren. 
I’ve no turn for it. I love Lydia ; and as for town beauties, 
I’ve heard they’re all paint and vapors, and that’ll never do 
for me. All I want is plenty of fresh air and freedom, a good 
horse or two, a good pack of hounds, and a nice little lass like 
Lydia to my wife, with a good bottle and a hearty welcome 
for any honest fellow I may call my friend. I can’t dress up 
like my father, and go about in a sedan chair, as they say the 
young fellows about town do, for fear of splashing their 
stockings or soiling their Spanish leather shoes : not I, hang 
it!” 

“ Well, well,” said Dr. Freeman rubbing his little fat 
hands, “ I’ve warned you. Jack — if you come back with your 
present thoughts, you and Lyddie may be as happy as the 
day^s long, for aught I can see. But if, on the contrary, 
you — ” 

“Oh !” interrupted Jack, suddenly flushing, and staring as 
though he beheld a ghost. “I have it ! I see it ! That’s 
it, sir ! Gad, who’d have thought it ? It’s as plain as a fox’s 
brush. My father thinks all you’ve been saying, and expects 
me to come back and flout Lydia at the end of two years’ 
time ! Hang me, if I do though !” and Jack resolutely shook 
his head, and would have cocked his hat fiercely if he had not 
been in the house. 

“ Do you think so ?” asked the Vicar roguishly. 

“ Ay ! that I do. Let a man choose his own line of life, 
and his own wife. It’s all very well ; but at the end of two 
years I shall be of age. However, it’s no use talking. Hang 
it ! Where’s Lydia, sir ?” 

“ Gone abroad with her mother to take tea. Now sit you 
down quietly, and we’ll have a pipe of my best tobacco, a 


THE COMING CRISIS. 


39 


tankard of mild home-brewed, and a little friendly chat ; and 
then you shall go with the lantern and gallant them home. 
You’ll be above that, Jack, when you come from town in 
your gold embroidery and red heels. ‘ Stap my breath ! 
Dem’me I’ Eh, Jack !” and the Vicar laughed at his own 
conceits; but Jack looking fierce and melancholy, the Vicar 
was too kind to continue them. 

Sir Thomas Warren never again alluded to his son’s in- 
tended marriage ; but, at the end of a week’s time, the heavy 
coach appeared one fine morning at the hall door ; Sir 
Thomas, in his velvet wrapper, embroidered night-cap, and 
gold-laced hat, installed himself in it, followed by Larrazee, 
who took his departure, universally regretted. 

“1 shall expect you this day week. Jack,” cried his father. 

Be punctual. Adieu, Ned ! I shall always be glad to see 
you in town.” 

And off drove the great coach with all its contents, while 
Squire Warren and Jack looked after it, each drawing a deep 
sigh of satisfaction when it disappeared. Jack’s journey was 
to be performed on horseback, and would occupy three long 
days. 

Swiftly flew the intermediate time. The last day’s 
drew near, but Jack’s heart gave way, and he vowed he never 
could meet thern alV in the field, knowing it was the last 
time ; so, in melancholy mood, he sought the Vicarage, and 
never once removed his eyes from Lydia, but sat gazing on 
her with the tender expression of a fond hound eying a 
beloved and kind master: indeed, during the last half hour, 
he sat perfectly silent with one of Lydia’s little hands in both 
of his, while the Vicar read, and his wife meekly knitted a 
pair of stockings. 

Jack was to meet his old hunting friends at dinner at the 
Hall. 

You’ll be late, my young friend,” said the Vicar kindly, 


40 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


as he drew forth a huge thick silver watch. “ Come, chil- 
dren, kiss and part. What are a few minutes more or less ] 
Come !” 

“ Good-by, Jack,” faltered the tender-hearted Mistress 
Freeman; and she put down her knitting, embraced Jack, 
and hurried out of the room, that she might not be present at 
the parting ; as some persons are wont to disappear when a 
tooth is about to he drawn. 

At the Vicar’s words Jack grew pale, and felt very cold 
and slightly tremulous, while his heart beat very fast and 
loud, and his voice stuck in his throat. As the Vicar’s lady 
vanished, he walked to the window, stood an instant gazing 
at the lawn, and walked back again ; turned his back to 
Lydia, who was silently weeping with her handkerchief to her 
eyes, and, seizing the Vicar’s soft warm hand with a cold 
hard palm, cried, in a voice that would have sent Sir Thomas 
Warren from life to death, could he have heard it : 

“ Good-by, sir — good-by — good-by !” 

“ Good-by, my dear young friend, good-by ! Heaven bless 
you, and bring you safe back. If business calls me to London, 
I shall find you out.” 

Jack wrung the Doctor’s hand again and again ; then 
seizing his velvet hunting-cap, he turned suddenly round, bit 
his under lip violently, and gasped forth : “ Lydia !” 

Jack !” sobbed Lydia, and they were locked in each 
other’s arms. 

The Vicar gave vent to his feelings in a tender Latin 
quotation, and Jack dashed from the house, brushing a tear 
from each eye, and drawing his cap well over them. 

How little he thought — But we must not anticipate, and 
. spoil the story. 

He reached the Hall just as his uncle and his guests were 
returning from their day’s sport, and warmly and loudly they 
all greeted him. 


A FAREWELL DINNER. 


41 


Dinner passed off merrily. Poor Jack was rather distrait 
and melancholy at first, but he did his best not to prove a 
“kill-joy,” and every time Lydia’s suppressed sobs arose in his 
memory, he strove to dislodge the sorrowful recollection with 
a bumper. After dinner, when the company were assembled 
round the fire, and the Squire had sent round the smoking 
punch, he arose : 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ we’ll drink Jack’s good health. 
This is his last dinner with us for the next two years. Send 
he may come back the good honest young fellow he leaves 
us ! He’s no taste for fopperies and tomfooleries, thank heav- 
en I — Gentlemen, I shall expect that not a man leaves this 
room till he has done his best ! There are beds for you all, 
and a clean floor for those who can’t reach them ! Jack’s 
very good health and safe return !” 

The Squire’s little speech was received with thunders of 
applause, and Jack’s health was uproariously drank. The 
poor fellow began to feel more en train ; though, in spite of 
the merry company and the noise, a chill every now and 
then came over him. The meeting became more and more 
jovial and hilarious. Lights were brought. The sturdy 
“ four bottle men” maintained their senses. Bowl followed 
bowl of punch. Supper came : more wine, more punch. At 
last one little fat squire arose to say a great deal about no- 
thing, and fell under the table. Squire Warren gravely 
rang, and had him carried off to bed. By degrees every 
body sang and talked at once. The good old Squire fell 
asleep with his head on the table ; snores proceeded from 
beneath it. Very late in the evening. Jack and three more 
were the only waking beings in the room, and the three com- 
plimented him over and over again on his prowess, and dared 
him to go on ; which Jack did. 

Now, fair and gentle ladies ! who imagine that love makes 
a demi-god of a man, abstracts him from all earthly deeds. 


42 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


and causes him to pronounce continually one loved name 
when no one hears, to knit his brows and make his fair one 
his idee-fixCy to the utter neglect of eating, drinking, or order- 
ing new garments ; who imagine that a man by falling in 
love has his nature entirely changed, and from an ordinary 
mortal becomes the extraordinary phenomenon brought forth 
for your admiration and deception in a novel produced by 
some sister fair one; who imagine .that to enjoy a good din- 
ner, or to laugh, or to attend to any sublunary concern is 
incompatible with love, because it is what you prettily call 
“ so very unromantic” (as if love implied romance : love be- 
ing a reality, romance a vision) ; now, fair and gentle ladies 
who cherish such fond delusions, do not read the little bit 
about to flow from my veracious pen I 

I wu'ite of a man who, as such, must act according to his 
nature, though love happened to be added to his other feelings. 

Well, then ! Jack continued to drink with his three friends, 
till only he and one of them remained ; and still he drank on 
mechanically, and even Lydia, and his father, and his jour- 
ney, vanished from his brain. At length one alone was left. 
Jack fell heavily on the floor, closed his eyes in sleep, leaving 
the victor to “ hurrah” by himself, over his prostrate form. 

When he recovered his consciousness the clock in the hall 
yas slowly and tranquilly striking five. He was stiff and 
cold from lying on the hard floor, his head heavy, and his 
throat parched with a burning thirst. Rising and stretch- 
ing himself he looked around. Two sleepers were extended, 
snoring, where they fell ; the red light of the expiring embers 
dimly lighted the remains of the feast, and the candles burnt 
down to the sockets. Jack sought the sideboard, and from 
a large silver tankard allayed his thirst with a long draft of 
cold fresh ale. Then, being fully awakened, the recollection 
of his misfortunes returned. London — Sir Thomas Warren 
— Lydia — education — poor Jack ! 


JACK’S LEAVE-TAKING. 


43 


He lighted a wax-light from the sideboard, and proceeded 
to his room, the old oaken staircase creaking beneath his 
step, the cold air causing his feverish frame to shiver and 
creep. He threw himself on his bed, and staring at the 
steadily burning candle, reflected on his fate : and never was 
there a more miserable being than J ack at that moment ; 
about to quit the life he loved and was formed for, to meet 
that future life he dete^sted and was so entirely unfit for. 

The shrill crow of the cock aroused him from his reverie, 
and he proceeded to pack his saddle-bags, and load his 
holster pistols, which lay on his table. Then he began to 
despoil himself of his much-loved hunting garb, in order to 
array himself in the Lincoln-green suit, which Sir Thomas 
desired he would wear on the journey. Jack, when he be- 
held himself in his glass, previous to making his toilet, could 
certainly not compliment himself on his personal appearance. 
His face was red and swollen, his eyes were dim and heavy, 
the powder was half shaken from his hair, and his shirt spotted 
with wine. Oh, Jack ! if Lydia could have seen you ! . 

“ Hang it !” thought the poor fellow. “ I can never take 
leave of my uncle : I’ll write to him, and put the note under 
his door !” and so he indited the following epistle, in a large 
thick hand, and shot it under the Squire’s door ; listened a 
few minutes to his sonorous snores with fond affection, gave 
a groan, and rushed back to his room to put on his heavy 
jack-boots and depart. 

“ My dear Uncle — I can’t take leave of you. God bless 
you ! Thank you for every thing you have done for me since 
my mother died. Give my love to Lydia. Take care of 
yourself. I hope we shall still have many a good run to- 
gether. Give my love to all my friends. Farewell. 

“ Your affectionate nephew, 

“ John Warren.” 


44 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Such was the note of the intended statesman and fine gen- 
tleman ! Not very promising, it must be confessed, though 
simple and honest. 

But Sir Thomas Warren had decreed that his son and 
heir was to he both statesman and fine gentleman, and his 
word being as the laws of the Medes and Persians, as he 
was accustomed to observe with pompous satisfaction. Jack 
was to be tortured into the man he needed. Sir Thomas 
never considered that the training would begin rather late in 
life; Sir Thomas never asked himself whether the elements 
of the character he had fixed upon for his son were to be 
found in him ; Sir Thomas never asked himself whether, if 
they were not there, it would be possible to make a states- 
man and fine gentleman, one or both, without them ; Sir 
Thomas never inquired which would be most likely to make 
Jack happy, the life he had traced out for him, or that which 
he would himself have fixed upon, and for which nature had 
formed him. No! Sir Thomas Warren’s son must be a 
statesman and fine gentleman : such was his word ; and his 
word was as the laws of the Medes and Persians ! 

Sir Thomas Warren had been all his days a pompous man 
of pleasure. He married late in life, at two or three and forty, 
a beautiful girl of seventeen. Lady Lucy Harvey : not that 
he particularly cared about her, but all the young men were 
wild for her. She was an Earl’s only child, sole heiress to 
great property ; and, therefore, having arranged the afiair with 
her mother, the Countess of Ilsley, u handsome widow still 
young, and not desirous of being eclipsed by her own daugh- 
ter, he pompously courted Lady Lucy for a couple of months, 
and then as pompously married her. Poor Lady Lucy ex- 
pired at the end of four years, through chagrin and ennui : it 
was said she had been forced, in order to marry Sir Thomas, 
to give up her lover, a young officer of great merit ; that he, 
broken-hearted, had joined his regiment in the West Indies, 


JACK WARDEN’S EDUCATION. 


45 


and, plunging into a career of the wildest dissipation, soon 
ceased to exist ; that his death, combined with Sir Thomas's 
neglect, had helped to mine her constitution and conduct her 
to the grave. 

Her husband, in the most elegant mourning suit, continued 
sedately to gallant about the metropolis ; and, as he hated 
children, he was delighted to hand little Jack over to his 
brother, who adored them. He hoped, now and then in his 
letters, that his son’s education was properly attended to ; to 
which Squire Warren was enabled to return the most satis- 
factory answer : as, indeed, the good Squire opined that no 
education could be more perfect than that which he afforded 
his cherished little nephew. The curate instructed him in 
reading, writing, arithmetic, and morals; while his uncle un- 
dertook his bodily exercises, and made him a first-rate sports- 
man in all the various branches — hunting, coursing, shooting, 
and fishing. The boy grew apace. At ten years old he was 
out with the harriers, at twelve he had followed the fox- 
hounds. His education was perfect of its kind ; but by edu- 
cation Sir Thomas Warren and his brother the Squire meant 
very different things. 

As he grew older the Baronet twaddled in diplomacy with 
great pomposity, to console himself for the small success he 
began to meet with among the fair ones of the rising genera- 
tion ; for Sir Thomas could never pay his court to any wo- 
man who was not young and pretty. In diplomacy, how- 
ever, he was not particularly happy, although he was far 
from imagining such to be the case ; and a decoration he re- 
ceived from a petty prince, who could not endure any man 
about his court who was not decore, very much enhanced his 
already very good opinion of his statesmanlike qualities. 

At length, at the age of sixty-three, he returned home to 
worry poor Jack. He was, to be sure, very much startled 
by his ^on’s appearance and manners : the goodness of his 


46 


THE SCHOOL EOK FATHERS. 


heart and the kindness of his disposition he cared not about ; 
but, after the first shock, his idee fixe returned with additional 
strength, and he placed the whole happiness of his empty life 
in changing every idea, taste, movement, and look of honest 
Jack Warren from what they were to what, some persons 
might have opined, they never could be. And all this, not 
for the young man’s good, but because he, Sir Thomas War- 
ren, chose it so to be. 

He arrived in town two days before his son. 

Already, TAbbe Potelle for French, mathematics, and 
Belles Lettres, Dupuis for dancing, Couderc for fencing, be- 
side Lord Langley’s tailor and hair-dresser, were all engaged 
to be in attendance on the day following Jack’s expected ar- 
rival in town. 

Now, some well-disposed persons might have imagined 
that all these preparations denoted great and affectionate 
solicitude on the part of a fond father. Not at all ! Sir 
Thomas rather disliked Jack than otherwise; but he was to 
succeed to his title, and to his estates, and to perpetuate his 
renown : at least, so the Baronet imagined. 

Jack’s apartment, too, was prepared : a large back room 
on the second floor, with a view of roofs and chimneys ; des- 
tined to impress the poor lad with a vehement and melan- 
choly longing for the country, the fresh air, and wide-spread 
view he had been accustomed to. The room was embellish- 
ed with one or two mythological pictures, with deities in airy 
garb; but Jack would have preferred hunting subjects, and 
never heeded the others. There was a case of books, in 
tongues unknown to Jack : in short, not one genial object 
was he destined to view in his new abode, save his hunting- 
cap, whip, and spurs ; which he himself hung up in his room, 
a melancholy trophy of past happy days. 

It was on a wet foggy evening that Jack Warren made 
his entry into the metropolis. The paved streets were dirty 


THE HEIR’S RECEPTION. 


47 


and gi*easy, the lamp-lighters were just lighting the oil lamps, 
that shone with dim and rushlight shine through the heavy 
atmosphere. Jack had beheld no town but the little post- 
town some five miles from Denham Park. The dingy aspect 
and thick air of London, the silent hurrying passengers, the 
noisy traffic of the city, with the prospect of meeting his fa- 
ther, all combined to sink his spirits, and make him already 
sigh to be home again : for so he called Squire Warren’s 
kindly abode. Through street and street he rode, ofttimes 
asked his w^ay, directed aright by sober-minded persons, and 
very wrong by “'imgs.” His stout iron-gray steed, unaccus- 
tomed to city sights and objects, shyed and curveted, and the 
beholders laughed at the rider for a clown. What is more 
supremely ridiculous to the cockney mind than a countryman 
in London, or more supremely laughable to the rural mind 
than a cockney in the country ; each, on his respective ground, 
pluming himself, and feeling his enlightenment, and his su- 
periority over his ignorant and inferior neighbor ] 

After much ado he reached his father’s house, wdth W’ell- 
splashed boots and riding cloak. The porter, who was look- 
ing from the window pitying all poor wretches v/ho were not 
porters in large leather chairs before huge fires, saw Jack 
draw bridle, and, on a sign from him, grunted and opened 
the door. He Avas a cross porter, and habitually over-ate 
himself, which might account for the above phenomenon. 

“Well! young man,” he cried, filling up the doorway, and 
looking at Jack as if he had traveled from the antipodes pur- 
posely to vex and insult him. 

“Is my father. Sir Thomas, at home ?” cried Jack, eying 
with feelings of repugnance the guardian of his father’s stately 
home. 

“ Gone to the coffee-house !” returned the porter, with a 
surly bull-dog bow. 

“Oh ! whereas the stable ?” asked young Warren. 


48 


THE SCHOOL EOR FATHERS. 


The porter, turning about silently, presented a spacious 
back view, and Jack heard apoplectic grunts, but could not 
distinguish the words uttered. They were to this effect, 
addressed to a young under-footman. 

“ Here, you, sirrah ! run and call Sam to take his horse !” 
jerking his thumb over his shoulder to designate the object 
he alluded to. “ Look sharp !” 

The porter then returned to the door, moodily eying Jack, 
till the footman and groom appeared. Jack saw that Sam 
was a steady fellow and kind, from the manner in which he 
approached and took the horse, he therefore gave him up to 
him, with the accompaniment of a half-crown; he then resign- 
ed himself and saddle-bags to the young footman, who winked 
at the porter as he looked at the light baggage, and ushered 
Jack into an immense dark dining-room, into every panel of 
which was inserted the full-length portrait of an ancestor of 
the house of Warren. 

Here he threw off his cloak and drew a chair to the fire, 
when the door opened and Larrazee appeared. 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” he exclaimed ; “ your very humble serv- 
ant ! Ah ! so enchant to have the honor to see you here at 
London. You ought to be broke with fatigue, indeed. S halls 
I conduct you to your appartement, and command you some 
supper ? Yes ! Ah ! your mantle — suffer me and Larra- 
zee took Jack’s dirty cloak without wincing, and preceded 
him to his room. His lively face and manner, and the inter- 
est he manifested in Jack, and all his kind and ^o\iie preve- 
nance, were as a ray of sunshine to the poor young squire. 

“ What would monsieur prefere for supper ? A little pot- 
age, one or two pree-ty little entrees, a cream, some pastry, 
and then the dessert ? A bottle of Champagne to take away 
fatigue, cup of coffee and a chasse? Voila un joli petit 
menu, tout-a-fait gentil!” and Larrazee stood in a bowing 
attitude awaiting the young gentleman’s approbation. 


SUPPER AND SOLACE. 


49 


“Much obliged to you,” replied Jack: “but I’d rather 
have some cold beef and pickles, and a tankard of strong ale.” 

“Ah! bien, it will be as monsieur desire,” said the valet 
bowing, but looking disappointed. “Up here or in the 
dining-room will monsieur be serve ?” 

“Up here, thank you, Lazar us , replied Jack meekly. 
“ I suppose it will be late before my father comes home ?” 

“ Sire Yarenne will return at eight, to make his toilet 
to go to Lady Ilsley, Monseigneur’s mamma-in-law : they 
play very much at cards, and your papa perhaps remain till 
the morning.” 

Larrazee disappeared, and anon appeat^fed a couple of foot- 
men with Jack’s supper; to which he did ample justice. 
Having dismissed it, but retained the tankard, he drew a 
large arm-chair to the fire, and proceeded to solace himself, as 
country squires of that epoch were wont to do, with a long 
unbroken clay pipe slightly curved (none of the black dhu- 
deens of this age) filled with fragrant tobacco, the smoke from 
which tranquilly curled about the apartment in a light gray 
cloud ; and the smoker dwelling intently on his past life and 
pleasures, thanks to the composing ale and soothing tobacco, 
began entirely to lose sight of his present situation. 

In the midst of his happy reverie, the door was gently open- 
ed, unknown to Jack, and his father, softly stepping to the 
fire, stood before him, like a pale ghost emerging from n mist, 
i.e,, the tobacco smoke. 

Jack took his long clay pipe from his lips, arose, gazed an 
instant at Sir Thomas, who kept his much dreaded gray eyes 
coldly bent upon him, and then in the veiy voice which so 
shook his father’s nerves he muttered, “How are you, sir?” 
and extended his hand. 

Sir Thomas took it not. 

“ I must beg, sir !” he said severely, “ that for the future 
you do not turn m?/ house into a tavern ! Smoking may 

C 


50 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


pass with fox-hunting squires and country parsons, but no 
gentleman ever dreams of such a thing. The staircase 
smells like a tap. What will my people think, and what 
character will get abroad of you through them ? Remember 
that servants have eyes and ears, and like some secret society 
confer among themselves of the upper class ; that valets and 
lady’s-maids know more of your friends than you know your- 
self ; and that at the toilet they enliven their master or mis- 
tress with sprightly gossip gathered from their own coteries. 
Pray let me see you throw that long, vulgar pipe from your 
window^ And never again let me behold you sitting over a 
tankard, like a country bumpkin. I have plenty of wine in 
my cellars which is quite at your service. Ale thickens the 
understanding and stupefies the brain, and I can not allow a 
son of mine to brutify himself with it. Now obleege me by 
throwing away your pipe !” 

Having witnessed the execution of the offending pipe, and 
heard it break on a roof beneath, Sir Thomas wished his son 
good-night, recommending him not to startle the mansion by 
getting up next morning at cock-crow, and so stalked pomp- 
ously from the apartment. 

Poor Jack finished his tankard and retired to rest, greatly 
astonished at the luxurious ease and softness of his bed ; 
where he soon sank into a sound and renovating sleep. 

So much for Jack’s first evening beneath his father’s lordly 
roof 

The next morning his troubles began. The room was so 
darkened he did not awake till Larrazee stood by his bedside 
with a tiny cup of chocolate on a silver salver. 

“ What’s that ?” asked Jack, in a sleepy voice, and rubbing 
his eyes : “ physic ?” 

“No, monsieur, it is your chocolate F’ 

“ Oh ! well, I may as well take it. Gad it’s very nice : 
only next time, Lazarus, T should like a bowbfnll.” 


A LOUIS XIV. STAIRCASE. 


51 


‘‘ Monsieur shall be obey !” 

Larrazee proffered his services to assist at Jack’s toilet ; 
which he refused, with the assurance that he should be up 
"in a jiffy” 

A knock at his door shortly after was followed by a voice 
announcing that Sir Thomas awaited breakfast for him in his 
study. Jack opened his door, and stared wdth amazement at 
the staircase and ceiling, painted in the Louis XIV. style with 
gods, and demigods, and Cupids, and the goddesses all arrayed 
a la romaine^ not a la greque, and every one with the un- 
mistakable Louis le Grand stamp on them, from Jupiter to 
Cupid. Mars appeared making a leg to Venus ; the warlike 
god being arrayed in a long Roman cuirass with a Gorgon’s 
head on the breast, a scarlet mantle looped about him like a 
curtain, a helmet surmounted by a scroll-like dragon, with a 
very large open mouth and clutching paws ; knee-breeches, 
rather wrinkled, descending to the swell of the calf, cothurncB 
nearly meeting them, decorated with a Gorgon’s head at the 
top, and a drapery proceeding from the said head as a finish 
to the chaussure^ much as a top-boot is finished by its top. I 
omitted to mention that the dragon on the helmet was shaded 
by a large plume of scarlet ostrich feathers, and Mars wore 
his hair long and curling, like the “grand monarque’s” peri- 
wig. Cupid looked roguishly from behind the god’s oval 
shield ; and as for his mamma, she wore her hair dressed like 
a Court beauty’s. Yet, with all this, the whole painting 
wore an air of majesty and grandeur peculiar to “Ze siecle'' in 
which it was painted. It made unsophisticated Jack Warren 
quite giddy to look at all these divinities, depicted in the dome 
which rose above him, and the servant turned on one side to 
indulge in a grin at his amazement. 

On reaching Sir Thomas’s study, he found his father 
arrayed in a magnificent white brocaded dressing-gown, his 
head covered with his embroidered night-cap, and a slight 


52 


THE SCHOOL FOH FATHERS. 


smell of marechalle emanating from him. He was counting 
his winnings of the previous evening, and dropping them into 
a very long finely netted white purse with gold slides and 
tassels, smelling of the then elegant odor of musk. The gray 
eyes were fixed on Jack as he drew near. 

“ My dear child, you enter a room just like a post-boy 
coming for orders, and you smell most detestably of tobacco 
and horses. Sit down. I intend that you should dine and 
breakfast with me, whenever I happen to be at home, in order 
to form you.” 

Jack sat down with a ravening appetite, and surveyed the 
table. There he beheld a beautiful tea-service and coffee- 
service, two eggs in Dresden china stands, two rolls, a small 
pat of butter, and a china cover, beneath which, on a china 
plate, reposed one muffin. 

Jack soon devoured a roll, an egg, and all the muffin, took 
tea and coffee, and longed for his accustomed beef or ham, and 
the silver tankard. 

“ You would no doubt wish to proceed here as you did at 
your uncle’s, like a young cannibal !” said Sir Thomas ; “ but, 
my dear child, you must fine down: get rid of your red face 
and coarse appearance, which you will never do on a beef and 
ale regimen. Why, you live every day of your life like a boxer 
in training!” 

Sir Thomas taking up the paper. Jack imagined he might 
effect a retreat. 

“ Where are you going ?” asked the Baronet from behind 
his journal. 

“ To see my horse,” croaked Jack. 

“ Bemernber, I absolutely forbid your going to the stables : 
I have proper people to look after the horses, and it is not 
necessary you should superintend them. You must break 
yourself of all those country habits ; and recollect, once for 
all, I intend you for a gentleman and a statesman, and not for 


53 


BEDECKING THE VICTIM. 

a stable-boy. Remain where you are ; there is yesterday’s 
paper for you : I am expecting* two or three people to be here 
presently on your account.’^ 

Jack took the proffered paper and held it before his face; 
and there he sat, with hungry stomach and vexed mind, 
staring at, but not reading it, till it was announced that 
“ Mr. Sayers” had called to see Sir Thomas, 

“ Desire him to come in. This, my dear child, is young 
Lord Langley’s tailor. Your servant, Mr. Sayers.” 

“ Servant, Sir Thomas.” 

“ I want you to dress my boy here, and give him as much 
an air of fashion as you can. He must have every things 
from a dressing-gown and morning suit to a full-dress suit ; 
two of each.” 

“ I never wear a dressing-gown !” said Jack hoarsely. 

A look from his father was his reproof. 

The tailor proceeded to measure the victim, tightening the 
measure round Jack’s waist most distressingly. Jack was 
about to remonstrate, but the gray eyes were upon him. The 
tailor eyed the young Squire’s Lincoln-green suit with supreme 
contempt. 

“ Ah ! he’ll look better soon, Mr. Sayers. I hope you’ll do 
your best.” 

“You may depend on me. Sir Thomas. I’ve quite made 
beaux and ‘ smarts' of even more awkward young gentlemen 
than young Mr. Warren here. I’ll show you my patterns. 
Sir Thomas.” 

Mr. Sayers’ boy being introduced with the patterns. Sir 
Thomas and the tailor proceeded to^ choose from among them, 
without consulting Jack on any one point: he, poor fellow, 
looking on quite amazed at the velvet, the satin, the silk, the 
gold and silver lace and embroidery, of which patterns were 
spread all over the table. He did not in the least under- 
stand what his father had ordered for him, though he com- 


54 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


prehended that his clothes would be composed of very grand 
materials. 

“What a fool I shall feel like,” thought honest Jack. 

The tailor was followed by Lord Langley ^s hairdresser, M. 
Hippolyte. Jack was made to sit down, and the Frenchman 
proceeded to untie and examine his hair, talking French with 
Sir Thomas all the while. Presently several boxes were 
brought in, from which many wigs in various styles were ex- 
tracted, and one after the other placed on Jack’s head; the 
hairdresser and Sir Thomas falling back and viewing him, as 
a painter does to view his picture. 

M. Hippolyte next proceeded to the rear, and taking the 
young man’s hair in his left hand. Jack felt a cold pair of 
scissors against his poll, and in one instant his tresses were 
forever gone ! 

“ Hang it ! what the devil are you doing shouted Jack, 
quite forgetting himself, and jumping up. 

“ M. Hippolyte finds your hair much too coarse and strong 
ever to dress properly ; you must therefore wear a periwig, 
like most other young fellows of your age.” 

So spake Sir Thomas, and laying his thin hand on Jack’s 
arm, he reseated him. 

Larrazee was summoned to assist, and before M. Hippolyte 
had left the house Jack’s head was shaved as smooth as a 
pawn’s, and decked with a most becoming powdered wig and 
bag ; over which the Baronet, valet, and perruquier, all 
ecstasized, while their martyr steadily averted his eyes from 
the glass, and felt no spirit for any thing. 

The next person announced was I’Abbe Potelle, a tall, thin, 
handsome man about fifty, with large gleaming black eyes, his 
hair cut and powdered, according to the ecclesiastical fashion in 
France, and surmounted by a black leather calotte. He bowed 
politely to Sir Thomas, and with a friendly air to Jack ; Sir Tho- 
mas having announced him to the Abbe as his future pupil. 


TUTOR AND PUPIL. 


• 55 


“ Enchante !” cried the Abbe, and sat down between them. 

Jack felt as if the Abbe saw nothing but his new periwig, 
that he was aware it was a new periwig, and that he thought 
Jack looked like a very great simpleton in it ; which caused 
Jack to blush and wriggle about on his chair, while the 
thought crossed him that the Abbe must have had a terrible 
crack on the.head'' to be obliged to wear that great bit of 
sticking-plaster over the back of it. 

After a few compliments between Sir Thomas and his 
visitor, the Abbe politely bending toward his pupil, with a 
pinch of snuff held in the vicinity of his nose, said, “ Vous 
parlez un peu fran9ais, mon ami ?” 

“ Eh ! I don’t understand,” replied Jack, gruffly. 

The Abbe took his snuff, whisked a few grains of it off his 
shirt frill, and only pronounced a long-drawn “ Ah 

Sir Thomas proceeded to confide to him that his son had 
lived all his life eng proviTwe^^ and to hope that Mousiou 
r Abbe with his talent would be able to civilize “ ce pbvre 
sovvage.^^ L’Abbe bowed, ejaculated, smiled, took snuff, and 
departed ; agreeing to commence his lessons the following day, 
and to send in the necessary books. ** Sire Thomas, j’ai bien 
I’honneur de vous saluer. Mr. Ouarrenne, your horrible serv- 
ant. We shall do very well, I do not make any doubt, and 
I shall soon make you speak French like a true Parisien. 
A demain done !” 

The polite Abbe in his heart did not expect much pleasure 
from, or success with his new pupil — ^^mais enfin,^^ as he 
said on quitting the house. 

“ My dear child, do not sit up there as though you were 
a wig-block. Be easy and natural ; walk about, take up a 
book — converse with me : for heaven’s sake do something ! 
What do you think of the Abbe f ’ 

“The what, sir*?” asked Jack, whose ears were itching 
and burning from the effects of his new head-dress. 


56 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


“ That French gentleman who has just left, I’Abbe Po- 
telle.” 

Oh ! — I don’t know : he’s very thin and yellow, though !” 

“ My dear boy, you’re a simpleton. If you can’t make a 
pertinent remark you had far better make none.” 

The dancing-master. Sir Thomas !” said a servant at the 
door. “ I’ve shown him into the dining-room as you bid me !” 

“ Very well and the servant vanished. 

“ Now, sir, jT’ou are to take your first lesson in dancing of 
M. DoopweCy the greatest master in town, and I hope you 
will not allow any foolish country mbvaise honte to interfere 
with his instructions. There is nothing more vulgarly de- 
grading than mbvaise honte P' 

I wonder what it is,” thought Jack, as he followed Sir 
Thomas and his rustling dressing-gown into the dining-room. 

There he beheld a very little man, surveying the family 
portraits and humming a minuet. He was delicately rouged, 
and wore a black velvet patch, in the shape of a half-moon, 
at the corner of his left eye. His toes were so much turned 
out that a spectator standing in front of him would behold 
the inside of his calf instead of his shin. His neck was long 
and thin, his shoulders sloping and narrow, his head well 
poised, his back well drawn in ; he carried his arms en guir- 
lande, but just then he held his violin behind his back and 
tapped his right toe with the bow. His wig was irreproach- 
able, with a high tuft in front to add to his stature. He was 
dressed in pea-green satin and silver, with very high red heels 
to his shoes, and paste buckles. His nose was of the Roxa- 
lane school ; a pleased smile ever dwelt on his lips. With 
the exception of his calves, which were immense, as most 
dancers are, M. Dupuis was very thin, and as light as a 
feather. 

Sir Thomas spoke to him a long time in French very em- 
phatically, Jack standing by ; at whom M. Dupuis looked 


f 


THE DANCING LESSON. 57 

from top to toe, with his head thrown hack rather on one 
side, and his eyes half-closed. 

“ Bien, bien ! ah ! je comprends — au fait — mais c’est juste 
— il est bien guinde — oui, oui, soyez tranquille — remettez- 
vous-en a moi — j’en ai vu de pires — il n’est pas souple — mais 
que voulez-vous ? — je le rendrai meconaissable — ah ! il fera 
des progres il faut esperer — au reste nous verrons — c’est un 
Hercule — mais tout-a-fait,” — these and such like observations 
accompanied Sir Thomas’s speech and little M. Dupuis’ sur- 
vey. 

As the Frenchman could not speak JEnglish, the Baronet 
was obliged to interpret all he said to Jack 

“ Stand in the middle of the room !” 

Jack obeyed. 

After a little preliminary drilling, during which M. Dupuis 
forced back Jack’s gigantic and stiff shoulders and arras at 
the risk of dislocating his own, he uttered : “ C’est fatiguant,” 
and stood before his pupil, heels together, toes in line, chest 
out, back in ; then collecting the fingers of each hand in a 
bunch, he brought their tips together with well rounded arms, 
raised them united slowly above his head, turning his chin 
over the right shoulder, and, spreading them slowly out, 
brought them by degrees to his sides, and his face to the 
front ; and so on, alternately looking over each shoulder. 

“ Comme 9a — aliens !” 

“ You’re to do as M. Doopwee has just shown you.” 

Jack with crimsoned face put his hands together, and pre- 
cipitately went through the evolution, without looking over 
his shoulder, and with feet wide apart. 

“ Non, non — voyez — regardez-moi done — comme 9a — cam- 
brez-vous — voyons !” 

Sir Thomas explained, and Jack did as before. 

“ Et les pieds !” cried Dupuis, pushing them together with 
his toe ; “ ah ! tournez-les au moins, allez, allez !” and, find- 


58 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


ingiie could not turn Jack’s feet out with his fiddle-stick, he 
stooped down and pushed them out with his hand. Jack 
tottered, and spread out his arms. 

“ I shal] tumble down, sir. Ton my soul I shall, if he 
goes on !” 

“ Nonsense, sir ; pay attention !” and Jack stood tant hien 
que mal with his toes turned out and his heels together, while 
every now and then little M. Dupuis pushed his knees back 
to straighten them. Next came “ ' 

The dancing-master placed a chair before Jack, which he 
in the innocence of his heart, imagined he should have to 
jump over. 

M. Dupuis stood before him courtesying up and down, his 
heels close together, and his knees at his lowest bend forced 
back in line with his shoulders. He allowed Jack, as a be- 
ginner, the indulgence of holding the back of the chair, but 
Jack, being long-legged and tall, could descend but a very 
little way ; his knees, not being forced back, coming in con- 
tact with the back of the chair. 

M. Dupuis courtesied and talked, and rapped Jack with 
his bow, and sang, clapping his hands to make him b^d in 
time ; he even played his violin, raising it up and down, and 
marking the notes and stamping his foot with the same view ; 
but Jack had no idea of time, and went up and down any 
how, hurting his knees against the chair, feeling very red, 
very hot, very hungry, very melancholy. Sir Thomas fretted 
and fumed and took snufi’, and began courtesying himself to 
show Jack how, and beat time with M. Dupuis; but all 
without efiect. Jack thought it all abominable nonsense, 
and was too shy even to try and do better : had he been of 
modern days he would have said, humbug f' but the word 
was not then invented. 

After half an hour’s torture, M. Dupuis declared that that 
was enough for the first time, and took his deoarture; very 


DESPONDENCY AND OBLIVIOUSNESS. 


59 


much tired by “ce colosse,’^ as he inwardly called Jack, and 
retained to resume the lesson every other day. 

Directly he left, Jack rubbed his knees, rounded his shoul- 
ders, a,nd fell into his every-day posture ; while Sir Thomas 
rang for his “nooning,” as luncheon was then called. Jack 
rather cheered up, but his countenance fell when he beheld 
a plate of Savoy biscuits and a bottle of Cyprus wine. Sir 
Thomas elegantly dipped his biscuits in his wine, lecturing 
his son all the while. Poor Jack had four biscuits for his 
share, his father eating two ; and then he took two glasses 
of wine. Sir Thomas contenting himself with one. Still the 
poor fellow felt like a Newfoundland dog fed on pound-cake, 
and, after a little deliberation, hunger getting the better of 
him, he hoarsely said, 

“I’m so hungry, sir ! if you object to meat, couldn’t they 
bring me some bread and cheese ?— I shall die !” 

“ Immortal gods !” shrieked Sir Thomas, cowing his son 
with the most supercilious of smiles. “In two hours you 
will dine ! Bread and cheese ! Perhaps you would like to 
go doVTi and dine with my people ? I shall now dress, and 
then carry you abroad in my chariot to one or two shops 
before dinner. You may go to your room till the chariot 
comes round. Don’t keep me waiting.” 

Jack flew to his room, tore off his wig, threw himself on 
his bed, and swore like a fox-hunter. Hunger does not im- 
prove the temper. Then he thought of Lydia, and his uncle, 
and his favorite dogs and horses, and the fresh air and good 
cheer he had left, and it seemed to him a whole year since 
he had bade farewell to all his delights. 

“Two years,” he thought, “two years! If my father 
goes on in this way I shall be dead long before that ! I can 
never learn to dance, I’m sure I can’t ; and as for French — 
oh ! hang it all !” and he began again to swear and bemoan 
himself After a time he fell asleep. 


60 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


“ Sir Thomas is waiting, sir !” and a tap at the door 
aroused him. He jumped up, seized his hat, and darted 
down stairs. Porter, footmen, and butler, were in the hall, 
which he passed to reach Sir Thomas’s study. A titter arose 
on all sides, which grew to a laugh, loud and irresistible, as 
he closed the study-door. 

“ What’s the matter ?” thought Jack. 

“ If you behave in this manner to brave and insult me, 
sir ! you will live to repent it,” said Sir Thomas, pompously. 

There was a silence. Jack looked about him with open 
mouth, and said — 

“ I don’t know what you mean, sir !” 

“ Look in the glass, sir. Larrazee, hold the glass to him !” 

“ Ah ! monseigneur,” cried the valet, doing as he was 
desired ; “I am quite certain M. Yarenne forget. Was you 
not forget by accident, sir?” . 

Jack cast his eyes on the glass, and there beheld a blush- 
ing face and shaven crown ! He, in his hurry, had forgotten 
to put on his new periwig ! Poor Jack felt inclined to roar 
with rage on seeing himself in the glass. 

“ How Lydia would hate me and my shaved pate,” thought 
he, not heeding the remarks and sarcasms of his father. 

Lazarree, muttering “ Pauvre jeime homme ! c’est bete, 
mais c’est pas mechant,” had darted up to Jack’s room for 
the wig, and now returning with it on his hand, soon made 
Jack as smart as ever ; then he and his father being seated 
in the chariot, gilt, painted with pastoral subjects which Sir 
Thomas much loved, and lined with pale straw-colored silk, 
they drove off; three footmen up behind, two sleek white 
Flanders mares to draw, them, and the fattest of fat coach- 
men on the box. 

The chariot smelt of musk, only one glass was a little way 
down. Jack’s head throbbed, and the veins in his forehead 
swelled. His father made a very long speech on his lack of 


A RUSTIC IN A TOWN CHARIOT. 61 

amour-propre, and his “low tastes;” all unheard by Jack, 
who gasped in his corner, and longed to kick his foot through 
the glass in front of him. 

At length the chariot stopped before a jeweler’s shop. Sir 
Thomas ceased talking and looked round. “ My dear child, 
what an insufferable lout you are. Arrange your wig, sir ! 
you’ve contrived to push it forward over your eyes !” but 
Jack’s little efforts made matters worse, and his father was 
obliged to do it for him. 

“ How blood-shot your eyes are, like a stage-coachman or 
a boatswain’s mate : you must have some rose-water. Get 
out, sir ! don’t you see the door is open ?” 

Poor Jack obeyed, but not bending low enough, hit his 
head, and, missing his footing at the same time, fell back on 
the soft carpet of the chariot in a sitting posture, his legs 
out on the steps. The servants with their long canes were 
convulsed ; while Sir Thomas swore, and the little gamins'^ 
stared in, supposing the gentleman to be taken ill in his coach. 
Sir Thomas having administered a series of pettish kicks to 
his son. Jack awoke from the stupor into which his sudden 
fall had plunged him, and the two gentlemen entered the 
jeweler’s shop. 

Great was Jack’s amazement at the treasures there dis- 
played, and the glitter that surrounded him ! He turned 
about with the slow, open-mouthed demeanor of a peasant at 
a menagerie ; while Sir Thomas, with his cane suspended 
to his wrist, and his hat beneath his arm, made the purchase 
of four pair of knee-buckles, and the same number of shoe- 
buckles, of silver and gold, in paste, and in diamonds : all 
for Jack. Turning to ask Jack’s opinion, he beheld his 
gigantic son, with his hands in his pockets, “mcxmmg” about 
him. Sir Thomas said nothing, but desiring the man to 
send the buckles, tapped Jack’s arm and regained his chariot. 
Jack followed. 


62 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


“Draw up the glass,” said Sir Thomas, with a pettish 
wave of the hand. 

Jack obeyed, pulled up the heavy glass, let go the holder, 
and down it slid again. Jack was not initiated in carriage 
mysteries. Sir Thomas shrugged his shoulders, took snuff, 
gave him a lesson in putting a glass up and down, and the 
chariot rolled softly on ; the Baronet lectured Jack ; the 
musk smelt, the young squire felt suffocated, and so they ar- 
rived at the sword-cutler’s. 

As the carriage drew up, a gentle, pleasing voice was heard 
at the glass which Sir Thomas had let down. The Baronet 
leant forward and blocked up the opening, in order that the per- 
son addressing him might not see Jack : deemed by his father 
not yet presentable ; and whose round and burning face cer- 
tainly contrasted strangely with his very white wig, giving 
him the appearance of a red rose tipped with snow. 

“ Delighted to see your Ludship : hope you’re "well !” 

“ Quite well, I’m obleeged to you,” returned the voice. 

It proceeded from a young man of five-and-twenty, well 
made, light and active, upright as a dart, but with the ease 
and grace of a man accustomed from childhood to bodily ex- 
ercise. In those days the tutoring of the body was deemed 
essentially necessary to every gentleman : to move with ease 
and disinvoltura was as much to be desired as any other ac- 
complishment. Ah ! could one of the elite of those days arise 
from his grave just to behold a modern young gentleman 
shoot into a soiree imagining he is being looked at” stare 
wildly for the lady of the house, wring her hand, and subside 
with his back against a doorway, like a Guy Faux propped 
up and waiting to be carried his rounds ! 

To return to the young man at the carriage window. 

He was very fair, with fine features and good-natured eyes 
of turquoise blue. He wore a plain morning suit of claret- 
colored velvet, a black stock, and long boots ; his attitude 


JACK’S MODEL. 


63 


and manners were distinguished and easy, and his bow and 
mode of raising his hat, when after a little further conversa- 
tion he took his leave, were quite perfect. 

“ There, my dear child,” said Sir Thomas, turning triumph- 
antly to poor Jack. “ There ! That was young Lord Lang- 
ley ! There is a model for you. I intend soon to present 
you to him, and I desire you will copy him most attentively. 
Good heavens ! what is to be done with that red face of 
yours ? I do believe I must have you let blood !” 

After the purchase of three swords and as many canes, for 
different degrees of dress ; also two gold-laced tiny French 
hats and two silver-laced, the best being decorated with a 
fringe of white feather ; after, furthermore, purchasing for 
Jack an embroidered nightcap, a watch and different seals 
and chains, and half a dozen snuff boxes, Sir Thomas gave 
the word “ The victim, to his infinite relief, had 
done with the scented chariot : for that day, at all events. 

Larrazee was desired to fill one of Jack’s snuff-boxes with 
“ scented rappee, that Sir Thomas might instruct him in the 
art of snuff-taking. 

“ I can’t take snuff, sir ; ’pon my soul I can’t : it makes 
me sneeze so,” cried Jack, as Larrazee, with a bow, put a 
little enameled oval snuff-box into his honest brown hand. 

“ I desire you will try, and persevere till you overcome the 
habit of sneezing : — a very low, nasty habit. Now observe, 
and do just as I do. Open your box — easily, gently ! Take 
a small pinch between your fore-finger and thumb, so : round 
your other fingers gracefully ; bend slightly on one side — not 
so, as if you were going to fall off your chair, but so, as I do ; 
and take your snuff quietly, without snorting or noise. — Gods ! 
you make a noise like a pig : gently, sir ! gently, now — ” 

Sir Thomas was interrupted. Jack, who had followed his 
movements as a child follows those of a leader in a game, 
now burst into a paroxysm of sneezing, loud and deep ; draw- 


C4 


TEE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


ing in his breath, shutting his eyes, bowing his head back- 
ward and forward, uttering the most astounding sounds with- 
out intermission, till he had perpetrated above twenty sneezes 
— Cyclopean sneezes, violent enough to break the windows 
and kill his father ; whom he confronted with red face and 
streaming eyes, as he gruffly muttered— 

“ I told you so, sir !” 

“ You must take two or three pinches a day, sir, till you 
accustom yourself to it. At present you take it like a bear. 
But patience ! we shall form you in time.” 

Jack only responded by blowing his nose like a trombone, 
and giving a few more parting sneezes. Sir Thomas sighed. 

“I had no idea,” he said, “ any human being could be so 
uncultivated ! The more I see of you the more astonished 
am I. If you blow your nose in that detestable and over- 
powering manner you will shatter every one’s nerves, and 
throw our fine ladies into hysterics: it is just like the news- 
man’s horn. Your exploits of this morning have quite un- 
strung and fatigued me, and you do not appear to do your 
best to co-operate with me. However, I must hope better 
things of you in future. Heigh-ho ! Would I had Lord 
Langley to my son !” 

“ I wish you had,” thought Jack ! “ with all my heart,” 
and gave his last sneeze. 

The announcement of dinner put an end to the scene, and 
poor starved Jack really hoped he should have something to 
eat. Sir Thomas kept two cooks— a plain cook for the serv- 
ants, and a French one, with all his appanage, for himself 
There was soup, of course, into which Jack put a quantity of 
bread, and sucked it in with a hungry and loud noise. There 
were various little dishes, to which he helped himself three or 
four times from 'each ; there were various kinds of patisserie, 
which disappeared before him like snow before the sun. He 
filled his mouth too full, and once, perceiving Sir Thomas’s 


A LESSON ON DINING. 


65 


gray eyes fixed wrathfully upon him as he was in the act of 
drinking, he put the finishing stroke to his enormities by a 
loud and strangling choke. 

Dessert was placed on the table. Jack had not half dined. 
Although he had ^one his best, Sir Thomas ate so little, and 
the dishes were so light, and the courses removed so soon, that 
he really had not fair play. Imagine a strong, healthy, 
gigantic y9ung man from the country put on the same regi- 
men as an old town beau — a young man accustomed to field 
sports and country cheer. If such an one should, by the most 
remote chance, read this little tale, he will fully enter into the 
unfortunate Jack’s feelings. 

The servants having quitted the room. Sir Thomas cleared 
his throat drily, and proceeded to point out all the enormities 
Jack had been guilty of during the repast ; instructing him 
that he should not suck his soup, that he should help himself 
but once to each dish, that he should break his bread and not 
cut it^ &;c., &c.: and lastly, that if ever he heard him choke 
again he would disinherit him. Now, Sir Thomas was per- 
fectly right in all his remarks and lessons : but the idea of 
making Jack the object of them ! There was much more 
difference between a country squire and a town gentleman 
of those days, than there is between their descendants ; and 
Jack, without mother or sisters, and brought up by a bachelor 
uncle, was a very rough specimen of country manners. After 
his oration, Sir Thomas dozed, and Jack took that opportunity 
to raise his wig and rub his head, and help himself to wine, 
cake, and fruit, like a schoolboy. 

The next move was to the Baronet’s room, where a little 
card-table was laid out, at which he placed himself, making 
a sign to Jack to take the chair opposite to his own. 

“ Have you any idea of cards ? Can you play any game ?” 
inquired Sir TJiomas, as he took up a pack and shuffled it, 
with his thin, delicate hands. 


66 


THE SCHOOL FOE, FATHERS. 


“ An old gipsy once told my fortune and Lydia’s with 
them, and said we two should never he one : an old story-tell- 
er ! That’s all I know of ’em,^’ returned Jack, blushing at 
having spoken of Lydia. 

“ It is absolutely necessary,” said Sir Thomas, “ you should 
be able to play cards. Not that I mean you to be a game- 
ster : far from it; but you should be able, with indifference, to 
win or lose, every night, any little sum you may set apart for 
that purpose. And pray never again let me see you blush 
like a bumpkin, because you happen to speak of a young creat- 
ure you h^ve a fancy for.’’ 

Sir Thomas then endeavored to teach Jack piquet, as a 
beginning. He had no idea of cards, was obliged to be taught 
the difference of spades, clubs, hearts, and diamonds, the value 
of the court and other cards : all which amused him very 
little indeed, and puzzled him extremely ; then he could not 
contrive to hold his cards without dropping some, never could 
tell the king from the queen, felt very sleepy from the faint 
heat of the room, and finished, after swallowing an infinity 
of small yawns, by opening his red mouth and giving one like 
a lion. 

“ Upon my word. J ack, you will destroy me I you will in- 
deed ! If I were not your father I should call you out, sup- 
posing you meant to insult me. I can not present you in 
company till you get rid of some of the most violent of your 
habits. You might actually yawn before ladies. Good heav- 
ens, what an idea ! Come, sir, it is your turn to play !” 

The game dragged on till the announcement came that 
“ Mounseer Couderc” was in the dining-room. 

“ Your fencing-master,” said Sir Thomas ; and, turning to 
the servant, “light the dining-room, it is growing so dark !” 

Jack felt a degree of pleasure. Fencing promised well ; 
but he wished his father would not employ so many “ French 
frogs,” as he termed them. 


THE FENCING MASTER,. 


67 


M. Couderc was a very fierce “frog” about forty; strong, 
square-built, and active, his natural strength and activity 
rendered still greater by continual exercise in active sports. 
He stood up so lightly and strong on his feet, that he appear- 
ed to rest only on the point of his great toe ; he was well set 
up on his haunches, and when he turned his head his chin 
was in line with his shoulder. He was stout without being 
fat, his countenance lively and sharp, his face slightly marked 
with small-pox and pale. He wore his own hair well dressed, 
curled, powdered, and tied, a very dark green velvet suit with 
a narrow silver lace, and an immense enameled ring on his 
fore-finger. M. Couderc was a fanfaron, and detested the 
English. — “ Chiens de rosbifsf he was wont to say to his 
allies, “ canaille de premiere force ; mais leurs guinees, c’est 
different — ah ; mais trh different, vois-tu ; et d’ailleurs il-y-a 
du plaisir a leur flanque de bons bottes meme avec un fleuret ! 
Sont-ils gauches 1 sont-ils guindes — sont-ils mal appris — sont- 
ils gourmands — sont-ils detestables ? — mais aussi sont-ils riches 
— sont-ils be-e-etes a trois accens circonflexes ces milors 
godems, bourres d’or, ces boule-dogues sans cervelle ? — c’est a 
faire crever de rage ou de rire, fun ou f autre, nom d'un 
'petit bon homme!'^ And thus did his bile overflow : but M. 
Couderc contrived to pocket his guineas and his rage at one 
and the same movement. 

He bowed with supercilious politeness and a slight dash of 
ferocity, as the two gentlemen entered, and listened with his 
chest stuck out, as Sir Thomas recorded how Lord Langley 
had recommended him, and how he was expected to aid in 
the enterprise of civilizing Jack. 

“ Bien !” he replied, and turning to Jack with a taunting 
air, “you are not abel to fence, sir, I think?” 

“ Yes, I am,” said Jack. 

“ It does not appear as if you could,” said his master, tak- 
ing up a foil ; “ aliens ! en garde !” and M. Couderc fell into 


68 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


his position with the greatest ease and grace imaginable, look- 
ing at Jack with a sarcastic smile, and stamping his foot 
resolutely. 

“ Thank Heaven ! you are able to do something,” cried 
Sir Thomas. “ Come, take up your foil ; don’t you see you 
are keeping M. Cooderc waiting ?” 

Jack did as he w^as bid, and crossed his foil with the French- 
man’s ; but Jack was very slow and heavy, and more fitted 
for quarter-staff than for fencing : he was no match for M. 
Couderc’s strong supple wrist and quick eye. Poor Jack was 
touched whenever the Frenchman chose, and his foil sent fly- 
ing perpetually, much to his wonder and mortification. 

“You see now cried M. Couderc, putting his left hand 
into his breast, and resting the button of his foil on the tip 
of his right toe, “ you are capable to make infinite pokes with 
a foil, but for fence — no ! You are like a , piece of iron, so 
steef, so hard ; you take too much force — you have not a 
wrist I don’t think at all — you fence with your shoulder — it 
is the wrist ! souple — delicate — strong — firm — lightr — c’est 
9a ! — and your position ! — no grace — no ease — nothing — and 
longe so heavy, like a great heer-horse — no spring — pouf, 
pouf, pouf! — ah! c’est detestable,” and making a pirouette 
on his heels, and putting his foil on the table, he informed 
Jack he must perfect himself in a variety of suppling exer- 
cises before he would allow him to touch a foil, even with 
the end of his finger ; and so the lesson was passed in manoeu- 
vres and postures that made the young Squire ache all over. 

M. Couderc remained above an hour, and before he left he 
had informed Sir Thomas and his son of the number of duels 
he had fought, the number of wounds he had received, and 
the number of men he had slain. This was a favorite theme 
of his ; though he was apt to vary the mode of slaying the 
same person every time he recounted his death. One story 
he much delighted in, and in the finale of that he never varied. 


A SOUND PEECEPT. 


69 


He told how, having insulted a chevauleger^^' the soldier had 
challenged him ; how they had met, had fought ; how his ^ 
sword broke and his enemy’s entered his shoulder ! “ Tout 

autre que moi se serai rendu !” But no, he jumped one step 
to the right, made a dart at his foe — “ crac !”- — ran between 
his legs, and, “ flan !” threw him over his head, which so 
stunned him he could fight no more ! 

“ Lor !” cried Jack. 

“ My dear child said Sir Thomas, when the professor had 
taken his departure, “ I do not wish you to copy M. Cooderc 
in any thing but his fencing, which is excellent. It is a most 
ill-bred proceeding to take up the attention of any company 
with histories of yourself, your affairs, your maladies, your 
griefs, your exploits, your sentiments — in short, to make 
“ I — I — I” the theme of your discourse. Epictetus condemns 
this vulgar practice ; and yet it is still too prevalent. If 
another be guilty of it, listen to him most attentively, without 
impatience or ill-humor, but beware of it yourself. You may 
be days with a man of the world or a man of quality, and 
you will find that you know nothing of his domestic concerns 
or of himself ; you can not be an hour with a vulgar cit, but 
you will have learnt his income, the number of his children, 
the illnesses he has endured, his domestic griefs, his politics, 
what dishes he Hkes and dislikes, his name, his age ‘ come 
Christ7nas^' the street he lives in, and even the number of 
his house. He never considers whether his information enter- 
tains you or not, but grinds on that he may have the intoxi- 
cating delight of talking of himself He does not care who 
listens to him, and two such beings meeting will contrive each 
to be talking of himself at the same moment.” 

Here ended the lecture, and Jack looking very heavy and 
stupid. Sir Thomas dismissed him to rest, and desired Lar- 
razee to wash his eyes with rose- waster, and anoint his bluff 
visage with an emollient cosmetic. 


. 70 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Thus passed Jack Warren’s first day in town, and for six 
weeks more each day was much the same ; except that his 
father having one day asked him who conquered England, and 
he, heaven knows why, having answered, Marshal Saxe/^' 
Sir Thomas thought fit to undertake a course of history with 
him : whether more tedious to the teacher or to the learner I 
will not undertake to decide. 

Jack appeared every morning in a magnificent sea-green 
brocaded dressing-gown, and cherry-colored night-cap embroi- 
dered in gold ; and his toilet was put under the superintendence 
of Larrazee. By this Jack was a gainer. Larrazee, like a 
shrewd, clever Frenchman, good-natured withal, saw, as he 
said, the situation at the first glance — namely, that it was 
madness of Sh'e Varenne to suppose he could ever make any 
thing of Jack, and that it was a shame so to torture and 
torment such a “ bon diable” as that, instead of letting his 
days run peaceably by “ dans ce vieux trou,” where his child- 
hood had been passed ; that if he underfed a “ gros rosbif” 
like Jack, he would give him the dropsy and kill him ; where- 
fore Larrazee took him under his protection, and instead of 
the morning chocolate, supplied him with his much-loved 
tankard and beef, and the same when he attended him at bed- 
time. “Pauvre garpon,” he would say, “ mais comme 9a 
mange, pristi !” 

Lydia had felt very forlorn after Jack’s departure : she had 
been accustomed, from childhood, to see him run in and out 
at the Vicarage whenever he thought fit so to do. She missed 
him sadly, and loving him as a brother, easily imagined she 
felt a very tender passion for him. 

Christmas came with its good cheer, and the mirth which 
then attended it. Poor old Christmas ! he is very old now, 
and I fear in his dotage, so dull has he become ! 

However, then, a merry Christmas came, all holly and 
mistletoe, and feasting and dancing and laughing : all charm- 


A WORD TO THE YOUNG LADIES. 


71 


ing things in their way, though better would it be to fix them 
for New-year’s day, than on such a solemn fhe. 

Lydia loved dancing with all her innocent little heart, and 
would go any distance to dance, and would smile all the time 
she danced, and would never be without a partner. All the 
young squires were her humble servants, and the poor curate 
was her unfortunate slave ; but she loved “ dear Jack'' better 
than any of them, and missed him dreadfully at the Christmas 
gayeties: though her engagement with him being a secret, 
every man not the soujpirant of another was on the qui-vive 
to win her for himself 

Lydia could not dance, minuets, but a good country dance 
was her delight, and she danced so well and lightly that the 
Vicar w’ould follow her with his eyes up and down till he felt 
inclined to go and caper himself The country dance is a 
good honest old English dance, fit for this land. See how 
every one brisks up when a country dance is announced, and 
how much at home every one appears directly to be ! See 
the same beings laboring at a polka ; which most of the men 
have learnt from sisters or other young ladies, and which they 
usually dance flat-footed with bent knees ! See them hug 
their partner so close as to crush the bouquet on her corsage ; 
which lack of courtesy the young lady feels, and is too timid 
to resent or resist, but continues to hop up and down among 
the cohuCi breathloss, her chin over her partner’s shoulder, her 
face flushed and terrified, and her eyes wild ; while he takes 
her on, his forehead more than moist, panting, stamping, 
running against other barks in the agitated polka-sea, voting 
it “ such furii" and that ^^the girls" like it. Anon they stop, 
like overdriven posters after a long stage. The young lady, 
with heaving shoulders, hides her face in her bouquet; the 
gentleman ^\blows" and draws forth his handkerchief ; they 
gasp a few words — after a space he puts his arm suddenly 
round her waist, utters “ take another turn” — and ofl' they go 


72 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHERS. 


again, jerking up and down, and looking like two tumble-down 
wax- work figures from Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show,^^ stuck 
up pro tempore with their heads over each other’s shoulders. 

Oh ! young ladies, how the polka puts you at every 
stranger’s mercy : but there are bright exceptions, See it 
danced abroad ! No jumping mob all over the room, but a 
regular order preserved. See the cavalier take his dame^ 
upright, light, merely touching her hand and waist, her toilet 
not defraichie by him ; see him conduct her the proper 
number of turns and stop every now and then, before either 
of them can look ugly or disarranged from heat and lack of 
breath ; and then see the cavalier's polite inclination when 
they are about to start again ! Some persons say the polka 
is “ so ungraceful'' and “ such a romp." The English — with, 
as I before said, some bright exceptions— make it so : but then 
it is great fun" and “ so easy." Papas and mammas allow 
it, and tell their daughters they should not permit their part- 
ners to hold them so tight ; and the young lady’s dresses are 
made dingy by the young gentleman’s black coat sleeve around 
her. Imagine a Parisienne allowing such a thing, or a 
Parisien being guilty of it ! — But so it is here, and parents say 
not “ nay'' and the sport continues ; and then comes a descent 
for ice, in which there is more funf and the young lady 
talks nonsense, and the young gentleman draws her out to a 
large extent : especially if he is a good match, or very good- 
looking ; and that over, he hands her back to her mamma 
again. ! 

Little Lydia underwent none of this ^^fun" and bouquet- 
crushing; no squire except old Squire Warren had ever caught 
her under the mistletoe ; she danced away gayly and inno- 
cently, and poor Boger Brown, the curate, would sit in a 
corner and sigh, and never take his eyes off her — Roger did 
not dance. And, the festivities over, Roger would return to 
his lodging, two rooms in a farm-house, where a dim rush- 


73 


ROGER BROWN, THE CURATE. 

light awaited his arrival, and plunge into his hard bed, and 
wonder whether he should ever have the courage to pay his 
addresses to Lydia, and if he did whether she would ever 
return his affections ! No, Roger Brown ! Lydia would 
never love you ! 

Poor Roger ! He was the gentlest and most humble of 
human creatures. The greater part of his little salary went 
to the poor, his time and advice likewise; the charity he 
could not give in coin, he gave in care and kindness : he had 
been known to sit an hour nursing a sick baby by a cottage 
fire, to enable its mother to go and visit her dying old father, 
which she could not otherwise have done. Every one loved 
and respected him, both high and low, and listened fondly to 
his meek sermons pronounced in a feeble voice and low. But 
Roger was ugly to look upon ; thin and bent, his face sharp 
and pale, and his faded blue eyes were rimmed with pink, 
A large clerical wig, rusty garments that always seemed to 
flutter in the breeze, thin calfless legs arrayed in black worsted 
stockings, huge feet in yet larger shoes, these decked with 
immense clumsy steel buckles, large thin hard hands, red in 
summer, blue in winter, hesitating speech, shy, awkward man- 
ners, and downcast eyes. No, Roger I Lydia would never 
love you^ except as the rest of the parish loved you. And 
poor Roger instinctively felt this ; and yet Roger loved on, 
without a gleam of hope : except now and then, when he 
was in very good spirits, he might for an instant entertain 
a spark of it, much such a feeble ray as his rushlight would 
have shed in a fog, and then reason stept in and — out it 
went ! Once, indeed, elated by a good supper and subsequent 
punch at a neighboring mansion, Roger’s imagination quite 
ran away with him, and he actually made unto himself a 
lovely and cheerful picture, in which Lydia was represented 
as Mrs. Roger Brown, and there were some little Browns, 
and a good living, and happiness without end, and he so venj 


74 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS, 


kind to Lydia, and Lydia so fond of him, and Dr. and Mis- 
tress Freeman coming to stay with them, -and Lydia going 
the parish rounds with him ! He slept, he awoke. Alas ! a 
dreary foggy morning — his beautiful picture rubbed out — and 
Roger with the head-ache ! Roger must have been tipsy 
the night before — a meek and humble tipsiness ! 

Lydia now and then heard from Jack, and received many 
little gifts from him ; all pretty little delicate toys and trink- 
ets, which proved the poor fellow’s affection for her. His 
letters were short and clumsy, but Lydia always smiled and 
said, dear Jaclcp when she had finished them; and she kept 
them tied up with a pink ribbon, in a sweet smelling little 
Indian cabinet in her room ; in which she also deposited his 
various gifts : little shoe-buckles, fans, necklaces, knots of 
ribbon of different colors, a gold etui^ a velvet with pearl 
clasp for her little soft white throat, &c., &c. 

When Jack sent the velvet he said in his letter, “wear it 
for my sake, and look like a little tender dove.” 

“ Very good !” cried the Vicar, “ a very pretty thought. 
’Gad, I shall turn it into Latin verse ! Jack’s getting on, 
upon my word he is ! ’Tis not like himself! What a place 
town is !” 

The fact is. Jack had shown his intended gift to Larrazee, 
who had supplied him with the idea. 

He always wound up with protestations of eternal love ; 
which, though the spelling was not quite irreproachable, ex- 
pressed the real feelings of his heart. 

The more Sir Thomas and his coadjutors tormented Jack, 
the more he detested London and his mode of life, the more 
fondly his thoughts turned toward Lydia, and the free coun- 
try life he was firmly bent on leading the moment he could 
escape from his father’s civilizing clutches. 

Sir Thomas after a time, and when Jack was becoming a 
little less stifi' in his wig and town garments, conducted him 


TOWN LIFE AND AMUSEMENTS. 


75 


to various public places, where he might see and improve his 
taste without taking any part himself in the proceedings. 
But Jack had no taste for any of them except the Theatre, 
where he beheld the “ Beggars’ Opera,” and could not divest 
himself of the idea that it was real. As for the coffee-house, 
it was a purgatory to him. There he sat listening to conver- 
sations he could not understand. The men around him talk- 
ed politics, fine arts, literature, travels, scandal, town life, and 
adventures ; all so much Hebrew to Jack : except sometimes 
the latter topic, from which he gleaned ideas of midnight 
riots and of fighting watchmen ; at which he sat grinning, 
much to Sir Thomas’s horror and disgust. He imprudently 
revealed to his father, as they returned home, that he thought 
it would be good sport to see a little of that kind of life ; that 
he could box capitally, and thought he should make a figure 
among the choice spirits he had been hearing about. 

Sir Thomas absolutely shrieked. 

“You are a low ruffian, sir!” he said angrily, “or you 
would willingly become one. For all you have seen or heard 
since your arrival you have expressed no approbation ; you 
hear of Mohawk rows, and those you wish to join. You are 
a shy bumpkin, and must mend your ideas. Many a young 
fellow has been irretrievably lost, through what I can only 
call loio shyness. Abashed in the presence of people of his 
own rank ; afraid to move, look, or speak in proper society 
— more particularly in that of ladies — he plunges into that 
beneath him. There he is at his ease ; there he laughs, 
talks loudly, treats every one, is flattered, caressed, made a 
god of, and ridiculed behind his back ! There he sacrifices 
reputation, fortune, health : and why ? Because, forsooth ! 
he is so shy with proper people ; thinks them so stiff, can 
not take his proper place, or feel his proper dignity and 
self-respect. My dear child, you absolutely shock me. If 
a young fellow happens to make one in a gay party — of 


76 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


gentlemen, understand me ; if they happen to take a little 
too much — enough to fluster them, I am not so cynical or 
prudish as to condemn them for any little rows they may get 
into, far from : I like to see a man with the spirits of his 
age, provided he acts as a gentleman ; hut to wish to mix 
in that sort of towm life you have been hearing about, be- 
cause you box well, and fancy you should make a figure 
among those ‘ choice spirits Gracious heavens ! — what a 
groveling idea. 

“ I will suppose you are not aware of the enormity of 
your wish ; that you do not know the degradation and vice it 
would lead you into, shy and foolish as you are with your 
equals. Never again repeat it : at all events in my hearing ! 
I shall keep watch over you ; and send heaven, you may im- 
prove more rapidly than you have hitherto done ! Of all 
earthly misfortunes there is none, in my opinion, greater than 
for a gentleman to be so shy and abashed in his own grade, 
that he must needs look for comfort and laisser oiler to that 
beneath him. Take my advice. Mix as much as possible 
among your equals and superiors, and persevere in spite of 
your feelings, till you have overcome your gauche foolish shy- 
ness ; but never dream of evading it by mixing with riff-raff. 
That would be to fly from it — not to conquer it. Here we 
are at home; so good-night: and pray do not forget your 
cosmetic.” 

Jack’s aspirations kept Sir Thomas waking, and he de- 
termined to hasten his introduction into society, with a view 
to giving him more elevated and elegant ideas. 

While Jack was busy with I’Abbe Potelle next day, the 
old Baronet sallied forth in his chair to call on his mother-in- 
law and Jack’s grandmother, the Countess of Ilsley. 

The Countess of Ilsley had been a supreme beauty in her 
day. Little, mignonne, with a lovely pink and white com- 
plexion, dark hair and eyes, the most delicate and perfect 


A LABY OF FASHION. 


77 


features, and the most piquante expression, a skin of satin, 
the smallest hands and feet in the world, she now at sixty 
could not forget what she had been. To be sure she did not 
look so old ; indeed, if you did not see her face, you would 
have supposed her to be still young. A soft twilight was 
preserved during the. day in her apartments; by candle-light 
the illusion as to her age was complete. 

Sir Thomas found her in her boudoir, weeping over a 
French romance. An Indian folding-screen shielded her 
from the door, as she reposed in a commodious hergere of 
Chinese rose-colored damask. The room was paneled with 
the same material, with curtains to match ; the glasses were 
surmounted by paintings of little Cupids with very fresh pink 
extremities, and a great luxe of blue ribbons. A large white 
Angola cat, also decked with blue ribbon, reposed on the 
Countess’s lap ; who rested her little foot, with its silk and 
gold slipper, on a little tapestry stool with crooked gold legs. 
Beside her stood a very small Louis XV. table in marque- 
terie, sustaining her ladyship’s little tea-service, from which 
she was breakfasting, and also her ladyship’s flacon, and the 
second volume of the touching tale she was perusing. 

“ My dear Sir Thomas,” she cried, wiping her eyes and ex- 
tending her hand, which her visitor gallantly kissed : “ you 
have come just in time to save me from a dreadful fit of 
the vapors. Have you read ‘La Coquette malgre File?’ It 
is charming ; but so dreadful ! You must read it. Syl- 
vandre is such a sweet fellow, all the women are in love with 
him ; and poor Chloris, in order to bewitch him — but you 
must read it ; and do give it to your boy and recommend him 
to study Sylvandre’s character. It would be of the greatest 
advantage to him.” 

“ I will certainly follow your ladyship’s advice ; although, 
to tell the truth, I do think, if your ladyship would take pity 
on the poor wretch and give him the entree here, your lady- 


78 


THE SCHOOL EOH EATHERS. 


ship’s influence and grace would serve my undertaking more 
than the example of any pretty fellow that ever was, or ever 
will be.” 

Here Sir Thomas bowed, and her ladyship smiled. 

“ But, my dear Sir Thomas, you have given me such a 
shocking picture of your boy, the hare thought of him quite 
frightens me. Suppose he should sit down on my dear 
Sappho, he would crush her ! Wouldn’t zat he shocking, 
my angel, mon petit bijou, ma fee,” said the Countess, rais- 
ing her cat, and kissing and fondling it with infantine grace. 

‘‘Would I were a poet,” sighed Sir Thomas j “what a 
sonnet I would now write !” 

The Countess looked laughingly at the Baronet, and pat- 
ted her pussy, which opened and shut its eyes and began to 
purr. 

Before the termination of the visit. Sir Thomas prevailed. 
It was decided that honest Jack Warren should make his 
dehut at Lady Ilsley’s the following week, when she gave a 
card-party to a few intimates ; and she graciously allowed 
Sir Thomas to come as early as he liked, in order to save 
Jack the embarrassment of entering a room full of company ; 
in which manoeuvre he was not yet perfect, in spite of all 
M. Dupuis’ energetic teaching: but Jack wa^ so stupid, and 
in truth set his mind against every thing he was taught. 

It was a grand sight to see M. Dupuis seat himself by the 
fire, in a fauteuil, to represent the lady of the house, and 
Jack (sent out of the room to be re-admitted by Sir Thomas, 
in order to walk up to M. Dupuis) make his bow to him, and 
two more, supposed to be addressed to him and the company 
at large. Jack had more the mien of a bull entering the 
arena, than a pretty felloid*^ entering a lady’s drawing-room, 
so red and angry did he always look at this part of the lesson : 
in fact, it made him shy gave him that extraordinary 
suspension of the faculties, said to be unknown in France, and 


SHYNESS AND ITS EFFECTS, 


79 


more strongly developed in this country than in any other, 
A number of people will suffice to produce it ; one stranger 
will have the same effect; entering a room alone, and some- 
times so small a thing as wearing a new coat, or having to 
carve a dish, will bring it on. How paralyzing it is ! How 
it affects the voice, the face, the air, the manner ; how it does 
away with conversation and amenity ; what suffering it pro- 
duces : it is even infectious ; and you will see a very shy per- 
son communicate his infirmity to some who stood fire'" well 
till he arrived. How can society go on easily with that 
malady abroad % You will find some in the highest ranks 
miserably affected by it : I have seen them flush, and show 
all the unerring symptoms of it, as much as the most obscure 
commoner ; and yet they have had brilliant opportunities for 
getting rid of it. What is it ? Where does it reside ? In 
the nerves or in the mind ] In both or neither ? It is found 
in children before they can speak, and in old men on the 
brink of the 'grave ; in high and low, in rich and poor, in 
male and female, in the fool and in the wise, in the weak 
and in the strong. Shyness ! What is it ] 

The day dawned which was to see Jack Warren’s debut 
in fashionable life without any thing remarkable to mark it — 
neither comet, earthquake, nor tempest. Jack was in a sad 
frame of mind, hovering between sulkiness, melancholy, a 
sense of ill-usage, shyness, and a vehement wish to retreat to 
bed, lock out his father, and stand the consequences. He 
could form no idea of what sort of place he was going to, 
what people he was going to meet, what he should have to 
do ; but he opined it would all be very stiff and stupid, and 
that every one would stare at him and laugh at him, that he 
should get very sleepy and ennuye, and have to be dressed up 
in one of his best suits and tight shoes. 

“ Hang it all,” he thought, as he walked up and down his 
room in his smart dressing-gown, cap, and slippers, waiting 


so 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


for Larrazee to come and assist at his toilette ; hang it all ! 
how I do wish I was at home again ^ sitting in my unele’s 
little room so snug and comfortable, taking a nice pipe after a 
good day’s work, or at the Vicarage, looking at dear little 
Lydia, instead of all this stuff. Nonsense 1” he cried, and 
stamped his foot, as he viewed his beautiful costume, from 
the delicate laced shirt to the snow-white gloves, spread out 
upon his bed by M. Larrazee. 

“ Nonsense ! Dressing up in all those fine things, so un- 
comfortable and stiff Give me a nice old hunting-suit of 
good broad-cloth ! I shall have to make my cursed bows, 
too. Oh, dear ! and my grandmother must be a straight- 
laced, powdered old body like my father ; and Lord Langley 
is to be there, with his girl’s voice ; and I am to look up to 
him : sort of fellow couldn’t give the ‘ view halloa’ if he tried 
ever so long ; fine ladies, too — I’m sure I shan’t like them. 
I hate finery. Hang it twenty times over! Once I get 
safe back into the country, ITl never come to London again ; 
and as for wearing fine clothes, I’d rather wear rags and tat- 
ters. What the dodee does my father want, I can’t think, 
bothering a poor fellow in this way ? 1^11 stick to my old 

notions and dear little Lydia, in spite of him ! Hang it ! 
here’s Lazarus: it’s enough to make a parson swear.” 

In this cheerful frame of mind, Mr. Warren allowed him- 
self to be dressed by M. Larrazee ; who tried all the while 
to brisk him up, and to make him take some delight in his 
belle taille,” and the ‘‘toilette toute-a-fait charmante” he 
was encasing him in. 

“ Ah ! it’s all very well your talking, Lazarus^'* he said 
moodily, “ but I hate it all. — Hang it I” 

In fact. Jack had not the least particle of vanity about him, 
and did not care a pin how he looked, provided he was easy 
and comfortable. 

After a great deal of talking on Larrazee’s side, and a 


PEEPARlNG FOE, ACTION. 


81 


great deal of sighing and grunting on Jack’s, behold him ar- 
rayed for his debut ! 

“ Ah ! what would Meese Lydia say to see you, sir !” cried 
the valet, holding a light very high that Jack might have a 
better view of himself in the glass. 

“ Say I look like an oaf,” grunted Jack, turning away. 

“ Fi done ! monsieur,” cried Larrazee, giving him his 
gloves and perfumed handkerchief. 

“ I hate scent,” said Jack, making a face. Jack was an 
ungrateful varlet. However, his costume was very brilliant. 
He wore a pale lilac watered-silk coat beautifully embroider- 
ed in silver, breeches of the same, a white silver tissue waist- 
coat, white silk stockings with silver clocks, Spanish leather 
shoes with high red heels, paste shoe and knee buckles; his 
sword was silver-hilted in a black and silver sheath, decked 
with a long lilac and silver bow about the guard ; he carried 
a small, white, silver-headed cane, decked to match the sword ; 
beneath his arm a little silver-laced hat fringed with a white 
feather, and in his pocket a silver snuff-box richly chased, 
with a miniature on the lid. 

“ How I do hate gloves !” growled Jack, as he covered his 
brown hands with a soft Paris pair. 

Sir Thomas was majestic in pompadour satin and gold. 
Having inspected Jack, and giving him a few finishing-off 
hints and orders, and having deplored the redness of his visage 
and the fatness of his hands, they seated themselves in the 
perfumed chariot, and rolled off to the Countess of Ilsley’s. 

Jack’s heart beat, and his mouth felt dry, as he listened to 
the footman’s thundering knock at the door — Jack, who could 
face any leap in the field, and who would have encountered a 
mad bull, or a roaring battery, without a shiver ! 

“ NoW; my dear child, do mind all I have said to you. I 
wish you to impress the Countess very favorably. Get out, 
and mind your sword and hat !” 


82 


THE SCHOOL EOE EATHEES. 


Jack felt the blood rush to his face and ears as they mount- 
ed the great staircase ; and in his face and ears it chose to 
remain, while his tight shoes made his feet feel stiff and cold. 
They traversed several large chambers dimly but sufficiently 
lighted, and softly carpeted. At the end of the suite their 
conductor opened the door of a smaller room, from which pro- 
ceeded a blaze of light, combined with an odor of iris, mare- 
challe, and coffee. 

“ Sir Thomas Warren — Mr. Warren,” said the servant 
bowing ; and the unfortunate Jack, in a paroxysm of shyness, 
followed his father into the room. 

The Countess was beautifully dressed in a white silk dress, 
embroidered with a semee of very small rose-buds, and forget- 
me-nots ; her hair, frizzed and dazzling white with perfumed 
powder, was crowned by a little wreath of the same flowers 
that were embroidered on her dress, with long ends of blue 
rose-colored ribbon reaching to her waist ; a string of large 
pearls, with a diamond, encircled her white smooth throat, 
and bracelets of the same decked her arms ; she played with 
a French fan, painted with love scenes from various romances 
while she took coffee, and talked to Lord Langley, who sat 
beside her on a small sofa by the fire. Sappho reposed with 
beatitude on a large, soft, green velvet cushion before the fire, 
with a large Sevres dish of cream beside her, from which she 
lapped in a very ladylike manner every now and then, without 
injuring her large rose-colored bow. Sir Thomas bowed to the 
Countess, and shook hands with Lord Langley, while Jack 
remained at the door. On a sign from his father he approach- 
ed. “ Countess !” said Sir Thomas, “ allow me to present 
my boy to you, and to intreat your hienveillance for him !” 

“ Vastly delighted to make his acquaintance. A fine figure 
of a man, I protest, and I have no doubt w^e shall make a 
very pretty fellow of him before long,” and Lady Ilsley gave 
her little white-gloved hand to Jack, who let it drop as 


“UNDER FIRE/ 


83 


though it had been a toad ; and conscious it was his duty to 
say something (the gray eyes were upon him), yet not know- 
ing what to say, he stammered out in a thick hurried voice : 

“ How-do, grandmother ?” 

Lord Langley stared, gasped, and took snuff to conceal a 
smile. Sir Thomas coughed drily, and inserting his forefinger 
between his stock and his neck, promenaded it slowly back- 
ward and forward, with his chin in the air. The Countess 
frowned for a second, then threatening Jack with her fan, 
she forced a little laugh, and said : 

“ Oh ! you wretch, you odious man — there — I forgive you ?” 

Jack here attempted his bow to the lady of the house. Sir 
Thomas felt inclined to kick him. Jack, in rising from his 
bow, let go his hat, with which he fought an instant to re- 
cover it, but the hat eluded his efforts, and pitched on one 
of its three corners into Sappho’s cream. Sappho indignantly 
spit at it, and ran to her mistress. Jack made a dash at it, 
and picked it up ; but in rising, the tip of his scabbard, rest- 
ing on the back of a chair, instead of resuming its proper pos- 
ture, there remained, and the bright blade escaping from its 
sheath slid like a shining snake on to the floor. 

“Hang it!” muttered Jack the unfortunate. 

Lord Langley, pitying his embarrassment, picked up his 
sword, and gracefully presented it to him, saying, “ Sir Tho- 
mas is one of my oldest friends — I hope you will think that 
sufficient introduction, and in due time place me among yours.” 

Jack, bewildered, knew not what to say or do, so he me- 
chanically nodded his head, and exclaimed, “Thank’ee — with 
all my heart !” — then, replacing his sword, drew on one side, 
where he was suffered to remain and recover himself. 

By degrees the perfumed, powdered company assembled, to 
the number of twenty. Jack, from a corner, gazed around, 
feeling an instinctive awe of the belles, and their minauderies^ 
and looking on the men with contempt mingled with envy. 


84 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


He watched them bowing, smiling, and sliding from lady ta 
lady ; listened to, but could not understand, a word of their 
conversation ; and felt quite astonished at the ease of their 
movements, the softness of their voices, and the richness of 
their costumes. No one looked at or remarked him ; which 
was another subject of astonishment to honest Jack. His 
solitude in a crowd made him feel very shy ; he dared not 
even clear his parched throat for fear it should attract atten- 
tion, or take cofiee lest it should choke him. He stood up 
stiff, and red, and hurley, in his corner, like a beefeater on 
duty ; afraid lest any one should speak to him, and yet wish- 
ing he had a companion to support him. How he wondered 
at the self-possession of the daring beaux who actually put 
themselves en evidence by playing with Sappho I 

He shuffled, first on one foot, then on the other ; and when 
after^ a time he beheld the compassionate Lord Langley 
making his way toward him, he averted his eyes and stared 
at a Chinese monster, hoping by such conduct to keep him 
off : all in vain ! J ack felt that his Lordship stood beside 
him, felt that he was about to address him, felt very hot and 
uncomfortable. 

“ What do you think of the dish of cancan all these dear 
creatures are regaling us with ?” asked young Lord Lang- 
ley. 

I don’t know what sort of dish it is,” croaked Jack, look- 
ing about to catch sight of it : “ but I’ll tell you a capital 
one — barbecued pig I” 

Lord Langley could scarcely believe his ears ; but, such 
was the kindness of his heart, no one but himself ever became 
acquainted with young Squire Warren’s attempt at polite 
conversation. 

“ Come with me,” he said : “I want to present you to my 
wife ; I’m sure you’ll like her, and be at home with her 
directly : that is her in pink, with a patch at the corner of 


** PEINE FORTE ET DURE.’^ 


85 


her mouth, and the large dark eyes. Come ! — Egad, my 
dear fellow, I shall not let you off!” 

“ No thank’ee,’- answered Jack, hanging back ; “ I’d so 
much rather not : I’m not used to fine ladies — don’t know 
what to say to ’em.” 

Lord Langley, seeing it would really distress Jack, bowed 
and said : “ A une autre fois done, mon ami !” and proceeded 
to make further investigations as to Jack’s tastes and opin- 
ions : and a very curious study he found it. 

Every one was now taking places at the card tables. Sir 
Thomas drew near to Lord Langley and Jack. 

“ I hope Jack is giving your Ludsliip a challenge at 
piquet,” he said, fixing his eyes on his son. 

“ No — but I here challenge him : there’s my glove,” and 
Lord Langley threw it on the card table. 

“I can’t play,” blustered Jack; “ ’pon my soul, I can’t! 
I always lose ! — I’d rather not.” 

Then I take up your Ludship's gage,” said the old Bar- 
onet, giving him his glove, seating himself, and making a sign 
to Jack to do so beside him. 

Bight glad was Jack to obey. His smart tight shoes, 
causing his compressed feet to swell, made them yet tighter, 
and great was his agony ; while the closely fitting waistband 
just hooked over his hip bones pressed and hurt him sadly. 
He sat mechanically watching the game ; but his soul was 
not in it, and sleep was invading his brain and causing his 
eyelids to droop. He heard the hum of voices, soothing and 
soft, broken now and then by a gentle laugh; he felt the 
faint warmth of the room ; by degrees he shut his eyes — 
opened them — saw the lights confusedly — closed his eyes — 
nodded his head, and with his hands on his knees, fell into 
the kind of sleep indulged in by a dog sitting in the sun, or a 
parochial authority at an after-dinner sermon in a close chapel. 

Lord Langley beheld him; but his Lordship pitied Jack, 


86 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


and felt for him a species of interest mingled with curiosity ; 
wherefore his Lordship engaged the Baronet’s attention that 
he might not behold his son, while he himself was infinitely 
diverted at seeing Jack’s red face and nodding head ; only 
hoping he might not betray himself by a snore. 

“ I never saw such a specimen of the natural man,” thought 
the young Lord, as Sir Thomas was dealing : “ ’gad if his 
father succeeds in making any thing of him I shall be vastly 
surprised. I should have given the old gentleman credit for 
more penetration and discernment, than to have thought he 
would have attempted such a thing. He will be much mor- 
tified, and the boy return to the country just as he left it.” 
Here the game cut short his lucubration, and he beat poor 
Sir Thomas for the third time. 

“ Your Ludship is too hard upon me — ’pon my veracity ! 
Fortune has quite deserted me for your Ludship. I really 
must put a younger fellow in my place, and trust to my boy 
to revenge my wrongs. Jack, my dear fellow, take my place, 
and see if you can’t prevail on that jade Fortune to favor you !” 

Jack returning no answer. Sir Thomas turned smilingly 
toward him. Jack, with cherub’s face, half-opened mouth, 
and well-closed eyes, solemnly nodded to his parent, and. then 
raising his head again let it fall on his giant’s breast, be- 
decked with fine cambric and flowing softest lace. 

The smile on Sir Thomas’s wrinkled face became an angry 
grin: he sat transfixed; while Jack with a rounded back con- 
tinued calmly to nod at him. Idiot !” muttered Sir Tho- 
mas, “ dolt — bumpkin !” 

I hardly think we shall have time for another game,” 
said Lord Langley, shuffling the cards intently, and pretend- 
ing not to see Jack, or to have observed his pastime. “I 
heard ten o’clock strike, and I think supper would cut short 
our battle. After supper I shall be vastly proud to attack 
either yon or Mr. Warren, and give you your revenge.” 


CONDUCTING- A LADY TO SUPPER. 


87 


“ A tonto then,” debonnairely replied the Baronet, with a 
bow ; and as Lord Langley arose and departed from the table. 
Sir Thomas with the utmost precaution aroused Jack. No 
tender mother could have awoke her child with greater care 
and gentleness : so afraid was Sir Thomas lest Jack should 
end his slumbers with a start, a grunt, and a snort. The 
gray eyes reproved him, and Jack did his best to look lively ; 
but when that young gentleman had once indulged in an 
evening’s snooze he was comatose till the following morning, 
and if aroused, appeared to be walking in his sleep. Sir 
Thomas half wished him back in the country. 

“For pity’s sake do rouse yourself, sir,” he cried ; as, sup- 
per being announced, there was a move among the company. 
“ You look as if you were in your cups ! You will have to 
conduct a lady to supper — ’Gad, I pity her.” 

Lord Langley so managed that Jack should conduct Lady 
Langley to supper, having in a few words told her the sort 
of being he was. 

In those days, when gentleman conducted ladies, they did 
not form an angle with their elbow, and poke it toward the 
fair one like a chicken’s pinion ; they gallantly, and, “ with 
an air^' presented their hand, and sidled along, hat in hand. 

Jack took hold of Lady Langley’s little hand, extended 
with the accompaniment of a graceful little courtesy and en- 
couraging smile — both of which were lost on him, as he did 
not look at her, but marched on by her side, his shoulders, 
to use a military idiom, square to the front her hand held 
by him as nurses hold their “ little charges,” while the other 
cavaliers were rivalizing in grace and liveliness. Supper was 
charming — every one doing their best ; the entrain and gay- 
ety perfectly astounded Jack, and partly awoke him from his 
lethargy. He had answered “ yes,” and “ no,” to all Lady 
Langley’s amiable attempts to draw him out, and put him 
at his ease ; but toward the end of the repast she had so far 


88 THE SCHOOL EOU EATHEES. 

been successful, that he suddenly said to her, though without 
looking at her : 

“ D’ye hunt ?” 

No — that is too dashing for my nerves, a great deal.” 

“ Oh ! — because Lady Jenny Ravenhill, next county to 
ours, hunts like any thing — ’pon my soul she does !” 

“ You quite astonish me, my dear Mr. Warren ! She must 
be quite a Diarja.” 

“ Don’t know about that — can’t say — she’d do for a ^whip^ 
though, or a ‘ huntsman^ with the best of ’em — ’pon my soul 
she would !” 

“ Is she a young thing ? — married, or a maiden ?” 

“ Married ; got a milksop of a husband, couldn’t say ‘Bo!’ 
to a goose !” 

“ What an odious wretch ! A man should have spirit — 
but I think Lady Jenny goes rather too far.” 

“No — ’pon my soul she don’t. Neat scarlet Joseph and 
black velvet cap. Up to any thing !” 

“ But my dear Mr. Warren, she must look odiously wea- 
ther-beaten and coarse 1” 

“ Reddish about the face and nose — thin as a whipping- 
post.” 

“ And does she take all the highflying leaps you brave fox- 
hunting squires feel such vast pleasure in ?” 

“ Ay ! — claps her right leg t’other side the saddle — over 
she goes — hoity-toity — devil take the hindmost !” 

“ Dear me ! I’m afraid you will find the town, belles very 
insipid. Are all your ladies like Lady Jenny 

Jack blushed, looked foolish, and shook his head. 

“You should see my Lydia,” he said hoarsely. 

The company rising prevented her ladyship hearing his 
remark. The ladies were re-conducted by their cavaliers. 

Dooced sleepy ! Ain’t you ?” said Jack, gaping as they 
reached their destination. 


AN ENTERTAINING COMPANION. 


89 


“ You have been far too entertaining to allow me to feel 
sleepy,” replied Lady Langley, reseating herself, after court- 
esying to Jack, as if he were a fine gentleman. 

“ Glad you thought so !” returned honest Jack. 

The assemblage of gamblers did not separate till past three 
o’clock. Our hero indulged in many nods, likewise in gapes 
behind his father’s back ; he felt as if a month had elapsed 
since he entered the house : and how people could sit up so 
late playing at such a stupid game as cards he could not 
think ! Jack did not observe the changes of countenance 
that the most well-bred among the real players underwent, 
as they won or lost : even the gentle-looking young belles 
frowned at their losses, while their eyes flashed or gleamed 
with pleasure when they won. 

At length the evening’s torture was over, and Jack blun- 
dered into the chariot and fell asleep. Sir Thomas was too 
much mortified and too irate to say any thing to him that 
night ; but the lecture was ready for him next day. 

It took place during breakfast ; Jack, as he seated himself, 
felt that it was coming. Here it is : 

“ My dear child ! I do not know whether I felt more sad 
or angry at your debut last night. Are you not aware that 
no fine creature likes a great gauky fellow like you to call 
her ^Grandmother!^ Can not you see that Lady Ilsley 
wishes to pass for a youug thing 1 You will never make 
your way while you are guilty of such atrocities. And then 
letting your hat and sword fall ! No well-bred man is ever 
awkward ; pray recollect that : and I can not away with you 
for standing up in a corner in the clownish, hunch-backed 
attitude you assumed last night. 

“For Heaven’s sake do not fall into the idiotic idea that 
there is any thing to be ashamed of in being tall ; on the con- 
trary it is a huge advantage. I have known young men of 
fine stature, struck shy at their height, stand with round 


90 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


backs, bent knees and drooping heads, endeavoring to shorten 
themselves half an inch by that mean and timid posture. 
They only succeed in making their height appear the greater, 
while they gain the appellation of ‘ a great ponderous lout 
whereas if they would take half the pains to set themselves 
up by fencing and drilling, they would, as it is called, ‘ carry 
off their height and people would only say, ‘ a very fine tall 
figure of a man.’ 

“ Zounds, sir ! what is the use of all Doopwee and Cooderc^s 
lessons if you sneak about as though you were going to rob a 
hen-roost ? I really feel so shocked and dejected when I re- 
flect that you actually fell asleep in company, that I would 
fain think it a vision ! What would you have thought if you 
had seen my Lord Langley, or any other gentleman, sitting 
nodding and snoozing like a low fellow at a tavern ? Think 
how your actions would appear to you if you saw any other 
person behaving in like manner ? When you are with other 
people you should think of them, and not of yourself ; you 
should endeavor, according to your ability, to do something for 
society, not isolate yourself as though you belonged to some 
other sphere, or as though you thought your fellow creatures 
were wild beasts. 

“ I must be just to you, and tell you that you in some 
measure redeemed your character at supper ; as I saw you 
endeavoring to entertain my Lady Langley, who appeared to 
enter into what you were saying.” 

“Ay, that she did,” said Jack; “no nonsense about her: 
no finery or stuff; though she don’t look so.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, sir! Never let me 
hear you disgrace yourself by talking about ‘ nonsense, finery, 
or stuff' It is the jargon of the vulgar, applied to their 
superiors when they feel the coarse inferiority of their own 
modes and manners. What subject did you find to divert her 
ladyship with ?” 


JACK’S PROGRESS IN POLITE SOCIETY. 


91 


“ Oh ! let’s see — why — Lady Jenny’s hunting, and how 
she’ll throw her leg over, and leap like the devil — ” 

“ Gods ! did you talk in that way ? Her ladyship must 
have thought you odious and coarse in the extreme. You had 
better hold your peace to all eternity than talk so to a lady of 
quality : or, indeed, to any one.” 

“ All I know is,” retorted Jack, “ she made me a grand 
courtesy, and said I was mons’ous entertaining ; and Lord 
Thing-a-me has asked me to go and see ’em. Shan’t be a 
bad fellow I” 

“ Lord who ?” screamed Sir Thomas. “ Every one has a 
name, remember, sir. Now bring the Universal History, and 
we will study an hour or two ; and never again let me hear 
you be guilty of such an expression as Lord Thing-a-me 
In spite of all Jack’s turpitude, Lady Ilsley gave him the 
entree to her card-parties ; whither Sir Thomas never failed 
to convey him, and by degrees presented him to several of the 
society. However, Jack could orC^ with none of them 
save Lord and Lady Langley ; who, being much amused by 
Jack’s rough naive country modes, and pitying the life of 
constraint and torture he led with Sir Thomas, allowed him 
to go to them whenever he chose : of which permission he 
failed not to avail himself ; his father beholding with pleasure 
a liaison which he thought promised such great things in the 
way of civilizing his young savage. 

Sometimes, when they were alone. Jack would dine with 
them ; and they kindly indulged him in a tankard, and were 
much diverted with his appetite and remarks. Then, at other 
times, he would sit with his elbows on his knees and his chin 
in the palms of his hands, and talk about “ my little LydicC^ 
to Lady Langley for an hour or two ; and her ladyship, feeling 
a real interest in her, and in the mutual attachment which 
bade fair to make both so happy (at least from Jack’s show- 
ing), became a willing listener — cautioning him against allow- 


92 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


ing the pleasures and glitter of town to cause him to prove 
faithless to his little country love. 

“ Bless you ! there’s no fear of that,” was his invariable 
reply. “ I shall reach home just as I left it — honest Jack 
Warren. No fops for me ! My service to ’em.” 

Sometimes he would have a silent fit, and take up his 
position near Lady Langley, and play with her little Blenheim, 
only opening his mouth now and then to say — “ Doris ! you’re 
a funny little thing !” and then Doris would wag her tail and 
stare fixedly at him till he scratched her little red and white 
poll; which he would do, again repeating in the very same 
tone as before, “ Doris ! you’re a funny little thing !” and per- 
haps stating three or four times that it was his intention to 
take “just such another to my little Lydia !” 

Then he and Lord Langley rode out together into the 
neighboring country : that was a real pleasure to Jack ; and 
he became more and more attached to his new friends, and 
invited them to come and stay with him and Lydia when they 
were married, promising them sport without end, and a sight 
of Lady Jenny Bavenhill in her scarlet joseph. 

As the season drew to a conclusion. Sir Thonias resolved to 
convey Jack to a levee. Jack rebelled dreadfully at first, and 
poured his sorrows on the subject into Lord Langley’s bosom ; 
but finding there would be no fine ladies'"* present, and that 
the assemblage would be composed entirely of men, he sub- 
mitted with his usual dogged resignation and a volley of 
“ hang ^^’s.” 

Mr. Sayers was called in for the court-suit, and Lord 
Langley’s taste was com^ulted ; and as the eventful day drew 
near, the costume was sent home — a white satin suit mag- 
nificently embroidered in gold ; sword in white and gold 
sheath, with white and- gold knots ; golden knee-bands and 
diamond buckles ; shoes of the finest white kid, with the 
indispensable red heels and a splendid pair of diamond buckles. 


PEEFAHATIONS FOE. THE LEVEE. 


93 


Jack viewed these preparations with feelings of apprehen- 
sion and alarm f and blushed and inwardly fumed as M. 
Dupuis put him through the various bows and ceremonies to 
be observed — Sir Thomas, with ease and dignity, representing 
the Sovereign. For a fortnight before the levee took place, 
Jack was daily “put through his fadngsf until his father 
and little M. Dupuis agreed that, after so much study, and 
with every thing so accurately laid down for him — chairs 
being placed to represent the various points and persons — it 
would be qu' ahominahld^ if he went wrong. 

At length the day preceding the levee arrived ; and, after 
his last lesson, Jack mounting his horse — not his country steed, 
but a first-rate London one — proceeded to* Lord Langley’s, to 
pick him up for a country-ride. Instead of finding his lordship 
in readiness as usual, a note was handed to Jack; who, 
tucking his whip under his arm, opened it, and read that a 
country friend having unexpectedly arrived. Lord Langley had 
been obliged to accompany him into the City on business. 
The note wound up by hoping they should meet at the levee 
on the following day. 

This being the case. Jack trotted off alone, and proceeded 
along the Barnet road, and then across country, with feelings 
of freedom and delight he had long been a stranger to. Over 
fences he put his horse, galloped over green fields, and sang 
with joy — he even forgot the levee in the sensations of pleasure 
the fresh air, liberty, and exercise gave him. Lord Langley 
was content to trot along green lanes gently and debonnairely, 
conversing as he went ; but now Jack and his high-mettled 
steed really enjoyed life, and Jack thought if he could but fall 
in with a pack of hounds in full cry, his joy would know no 
bounds. But Jack was too near town for that. On he sped, 
with sparkling eyes, till a sudden turn brought him in view 
of the prettiest little village possible. As he passed through 
it, he saw the little inn, neat and clean, with the sign of St 


94 


THE SCHOOL EOH FATHERS. 


George and the Dragon hanging from a large leafless elm 
before the door. 

“ I’m clooced hungry !” thought Jack : and the next minute 
found him dismounted, and knocking with his whip at the 
inn- door, while his horse pawed and threw the foam over its 
head. 

The landlord looked all amazement at the velvet coat and 
gold lace invading his premises, and Jack, having ascertained 
that the stable and the ale were good, installed himself in a 
long narrow room, redolent of pipes, spirits, and beer ; after 
having given an unlimited order for fried eggs and bacon, and 
a jug of the best ale. 

The long room was to the back of the house, and from the 
windows a prospect of a bowling-green and leafless arbor was 
obtained. The walls were decorated with gaudily colored 
woodcuts in black frames, representing Chevy Chase and 
celebrated highwaymen, all very near the ceiling and hang- 
ing very much awry. A long oak table, benches, and chairs, 
composed the furniture ; the floor was sanded, and not at all 
in character with Jack’s red-heeled boots and massive silver 
spurs; neither did the whitewashed walls correspond very 
well with the little gold-laced three-cornered hat he hung 
upon a great wooden peg. A littje round one-legged three- 
footed table was put before the fire, a coarse clean cloth with 
many darns thrown over it, and the smoking dish of eggs and 
bacon placed thereon, accompanied by a brown jug of foaming 
ale, and a loaf of very heavy home-made bread. Jack stretch- 
ed a leg on either side of the little table, and proceeded to eat 
with great gusto and a healthy young appetite, undestroyable 
by such trifles as dim-looking knives and iron forks. 

Reader ! do not imagine because Jack was shy in London 
society, and is now enjoying himself at the little inn, that 
Jack liked *'low lifd' — DistinguonsI many mistakes arise 
in this transitory life from not doing so. Jack hated refined 


JACK ENJOYING HIMSELF. 


95 


society ; Jack loved rougli country gentlemen of his own 
rank : but from this it does not follow that he liked low life. 
That he might do so in time, if Sir Thomas persevered in 
keeping him from his natural associates, and if opportunities 
presented themselves for falling into it as an escape from the 
other, is another question : at the moment in hand he did not 
love it. 

He ate a plain dinner such as he liked, a great deal of 
bread and cheese, and then turning toward the fire proceeded 
to fill a very long pipe with very strong tobacco. 

“ This is worth all my father’s kickshaws and ragoos,” he 
thought as he lighted his pipe — the first he had had for 
months — and leaning back in his great wooden arm-chair, 
shut his eyes and tranquilly smoked ; heartily wishing for his 
old uncle. Squire Warren, to fill up the measure of his happi- 
ness. 

It was all very pleasant ; but John Warren, Esq., with a 
white and gold court-suit ready for him at the town mansion 
of his father. Sir Thomas Warren, Bart., had no business to 
be dining and smoking at the sign of St. George and the 
Dragon, in a sandy parlor at a public-house ! 

Jack was at his third pipe when the parlor door was 
thrown rudely open, to give admission to a thick-set surly- 
looking man in the dress of a butcher. He 'marched straight 
up to the fire, eying Jack (or, more properly speaking. Jack’s 
garments) with a contemptuous yet envious mien, and stood 
himself up with his back to the fire, with an “ Tm as good 
as yoVj^ demeanor, quite laughable to behold. 

Jack knocking on the table with his whip^summoned the 
landlord, and ordered a pint more ale, and his bill, which 
vere brought accordingly. 

“Might have the manners to say — ^take a drinjc, se>,’ ” 
gTowled the butcher ; as Jack, having finished his ale, arose to 
depart : “ Manners make the man, want of them the fellow’” 


96 


THE SCHOOL EOH FATHERS. 


!” cried Jack, turning sharply round. 

“ Fine feathers make fine birds,” resumed the butcher, 
turning his bilious discontented eyes on Jack. “ Because I 
comes in, you goes out ; as if a man was pyson, because he 
earns a honest living instead of flaunting about in velvets and 
silks he don’t pay for !” 

“ You’re drunk, my honest man,” cried Jack, taking down 
his hat, and much astonished at this sudden attack. 

The butcher was a discontented spirit, the head of a knot 
of idle fellows who neglected their business to give their time 
to bull-baiting, dog-fighting, cock-fighting, drinking, and abus- 
ing and hating every man at all above them — either in station 
or manners. 

Jack’s velvet costume and rejoiti mien had caused Tim’s 
Spragg’s bile to overflow. 

“ Drunk yourself,” he snarled in return ; “ I don’t see what 
business you have poking and prying about in our club-room. 
You think yourself monstrous grand ; but where would you 
be without butchers, you sneak ! You’re a fine gentleman, I 
take it, come to make fun of us poor fellows : but we won’t 
stand nonsense or sauce — so tramp, will you !” 

And the butcher majestically extended his dirty paw toward 
the door, as a sign for Jack to depart ; to which gracious 
signal Jack responded by cutting him across the face with his 
heavy riding- whip. Tim Spraggs staggered back, raised his 
hands to his face — roared with rage — swore — and rushing at 
Jack with foaming mouth, and eyes squinting with hate and 
malice, dealt a blow at him with his heavy fist ; Jack par- 
ried it, giving him one in return, which sent him rolling 
against the fender ; the clatter of his fall calling the landlord 
and all his family, and some customers seated about the 
kitchen fire, to the scene of action. 

The butcher was slowly rising, abusing Jack all the time 
in the coarsest language he could muster, and then darting at 


JACK’S INGLORIOUS VICTORY. 


97 


him struck him on the mouth ; Jack coolly knocking him 
down as the only reply. 

Again the furious butcher flew at Jack ; who contented 
himself at each attack by parrying his blows, till the oppor- 
tunity came for planting one scientificafly, which invariably 
knocked Mr. Spraggs down. Still Mr. Spraggs continued the 
fight ; but the w^orthy creature having lost his temper entire- 
ly, rage blinded him : he managed to hit his adversary twice ; 
once causing the blood to gush from his nose on his velvet and 
fine linen, and then dealing him a blow on the right eye 
which caused him to see myriads of lights ; but neither de- 
prived him of his temper nor of his coolness. 

Mr. Spraggs solaced himself with very horrible language ; 
Jack spoke not a word ; till, after a few minutes fight, he 
stretched the butcher senseless on the sanded floor. 

“ I don’t think he’ll insult a gentleman again,” said Jacl^ ; 
and, paying his bill, he mounted his horse. 

“ I’m glad he’s had a lesson, sir,” said the landlord: “he’s 
the lowest o’ the low. Good thing none o’ the others were 
there, or they’d ’a murdered you : they’re always half-seas 
over. I didn’t see him come in, or I’d ’a kept him out — ” 

Jack trotted off. The weather, as English weather ivill 
do, had quite changed during the two hours he had passed at 
the St. George and the Dragon, and he had not gone a 
quarter of a mile before a thick, fine drizzle fell from the low, 
dark, lead-colored clouds ; the wind blowing it full in his 
face, and against his breast, which was only covered by his 
delicate shirt and frill : his coat not being made to button. 

“ Hang it !” thought Jack, “ I shall get my finery spoilt ; 
and what will my father say?” for honest Jack could not 
shake off by any means the boyish awe and dread he enter- 
tained for Sir Thomas. As he trotted on, the drizzle gave 
place to larger drops, the wind became stronger and stronger, 
and Jack’s velvet garments, wet through and through, pre- 

E 


98 


THE SCHOOL FOH FATHERS. 


sented the appearance of the shining coat of a fat water-rat. 
The powder in his wig, too, was much damaged, and ran 
down his hack and face ; and he felt his mouth, nose, and 
eye very stiff and somewhat painful. 

By the time he arrived home, the hard determined rain 
had done its work, and made a sponge of Jack’s habiliments. 
The fat porter stared at him, as did the lackeys ; with a 
whisper among themselves, unheard by Jack, “ whatever’s he 
been up to ?” 

“ Sir Thomas is a inquiring for you, sir,” grunted the 
porter. “ He wished you to step in the study d'reckly you 
come in.” 

“Very well,” said Jack, and obeyed the Baronet’s man- 
date ; saying to himself as he opened the study door, “Now 
for it.” 

Sir Thomas, as his son approached, drew himself up majes- 
tically in his bergere ; but when he gained a full view of 
him, horror succeeded to majesty in the air and countenance 
of the old Baronet. Neither was it to be wondered at. Jack 
stood before him shining with wet from top to toe, the front 
of his shirt spotted with blood and marked with the green 
color the rain had extracted from his coat. His wig, wet 
and shrunk, clung drooping close to his face : and what a 
face ! His mouth, cut by his teeth through the force of Mr. 
Spraggs’s blow, was immensely swollen, the upper lip curl- 
ing up toward the nose like a negro’s, the nose itself being 
equally swollen with the moiith. And then Jack’s right 
eye and cheek ! The eye was quite closed, and the whole 
side of the face, from chin to eyebrow, one large discolored 
swelling. The left eye wore a perplexed expression, wan- 
dering backward and forward from Sir Thomas to the fire, 
and from the fire to Sir Thomas, as Jack stood twiddling 
his riding-whip, confounded by his father’s silence and fixed 
stare. 


JACK WAKEEN’S EDUCATION. 


99 


The porter said you wanted me, sir,” at length cried 
Jack, in such a voice ! the trembling, hoarse, shy voice find- 
ing its way through the stiff, swollen, throbbing mouth. 

“ Where have you been, sir f’ demanded Sir Thomas, 
vibrating with rage. “Answer me! Zounds, sir !— no flinch- 
ing — where have you been, you young scoundrel 'I In some 
pot-house brawl, no doubt! I’ve seen my Lord Langley: 
you’ve not been with him. Don’t stand up there shuffling 
about like a footman in disgrace ; answer this moment, sir, 
or confound it. I’ll cut you off with a shilling ! Where have 
you been ? What have you been doing ? How did you get 
that disgustingly ugly bull-dog’s face 1 Answer, you young 
scamp, answer !” and Sir Thomas patted the table pettishly 
and impatiently wdth his long delicate fingers. 

“Yes, sir,” replied poor Jack; and, being the soul of truth, 
he would as soon have thought of picking his father’s pocket 
as of telling him the shadow of an untruth ; so, with great 
difliculty of utterance, he mumbled forth the whole account 
of the morning’s transactions. 

“You are a low fellow, sir !” cried Sir Thomas, grinding 
his teeth with passion. “ How are you to go to the levee 
with that vulgar face 1 You can not go ! You are deprived 
of the opportunity of paying your devoirs to your Sovereign 
by the fist of a butcher ! You’re a disgrace to your family ! 
Eating and drinking at a public-house ! squabbling and box- 
ing with a butcher ! Pish !” 

“ He was so impudent, sir : what could I do ?” 

“ Treat the brute with silent contempt, sir : that’s what 
you should have done. But you had no business in a public- 
house at all. I began to entertain great hopes of you : but 
now ! Go to bed, sir, and rid me of your hideous face. I 
would rather see you run through like a gentleman, than 
behold you with the face of a ruffianly knocked-about prize- 
fighter. You knew you were going to the levee, sir ! Zounds, 


100 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


get out of my sight, or I shall kill you ! Go to your bed in- 
stantly. I shall send for White, who may perhaps be able 
to do something for you by to-morrow : though I doubt it.” 

Jack asked nothing better than to retire to his bed. The 
surgeon, of course, was unable to do away with Mr. Spraggs’s 
handiwork in time for the levee on the following day ; and 
so Jack escaped it altogether, as there was not to be another 
that season. Sir Thomas insisted on his remaining in his 
room, and spread abroad a report that Jack was very ill 
with cold and fever. He visited him daily, and lectured him 
much. 

Jack passed a very dull time till his face was well; but 
Larrazee, seeing the wondrous effects of boxing, like many 
Frenchmen, expressed a great desire to be able to give such 
awful blows ; wherefore Jack, at “ Lazarus' s ' spare mo- 
ments, endeavored to pass the time by teaching him : but 
the valet could never catch the true spirit of it, or desist from 
defying cries and gestures, no wise in accordance avec ce 
diable de boxe." 

“ Hope springs eternal in the human breast — 

Man never is, but always to be blest !” 

So it was with Sir Thomas in regard to poor Jack. He 
certainly was not blest on the levee-day, and the polish of 
his manners could scarcely conceal the vexation and ill-humor 
of his soul. He was very dejected by his son’s last escapade: 
but, then, in stepped Hope ; and Hope advised him to forget 
past failures, and only look to the future. Hope, to use a 
phrase of a polished lord of the last century, was so vulgar as 
“ to let off a proverb" — not one but several — “Rome was' not 
built in a day”— “ Avec de petites briques on fait de grandes 
maisons" — “ Patience and perseverance will move mount- 
ains” — with many more in the same spirit : to all of which 
Sir Thomas agreed, as persons generally speaking agree whh 


“THE PLEASURES OE HOPE.” 


101 


whatever jumps with their humor. Then Sir Thomas per- 
suaded himself that Jack had made some little progress — 
that he was not quite so uncouth as on his first arrival ; that 
a summer of study in the country, and another winter in 
town, or perhaps in Paris, could not fail of making him the 
man he wished to see. Thus, Hope, in spite of all obstacles 
springing in Sir Thomas’s breast, firmly persuaded him that 
he was to be blest ! 

Jack’s disfigured face was nearly three weeks before it re- 
turned to its normal state of smooth, soulless good-nature. 
This saved him not only from the levee, but from three card- 
parties at his grandmamma’s, and a ball at Lord Langley’s : 
Jack’s first appearance at such an affair; and at which he 
was to have danced his first minuet. Lady Langley having 
consented to dance it with him. There were great practic- 
ings to insure success ; and her ladyship told Jack she was 
so disappointed at not dancing it with him, that she hoped 
he would consider himself engaged to her for their first meet- 
ing in public the following season — to which Jack gallantly 
replied : “ ’Pon my soul, I’d much rather not !” 

Jack felt comparatively happy when, the London season 
having drawn to a close, he beheld lords and ladies departing 
for the country, and heard orders given with a view to Sir 
Thomas’s removal to his country-seat. He cherished a secret 
hope that his father would then consent to give him leave of 
absence, for a short visit to his beloved old uncle and his dear 
little Lydia. He ventured to express his wish. Luckless 
Jack ! he chose an ill moment to do so. 

Sir Thomas had just had an interview with 1’ Abbe Po- 
telle ; ‘who, sliding into the study, pressed his three-cornered 
hat on his breast and bowled over it, and then, after the usual 
ceremonies and compliments, announced, with great expres- 
sions of sorrow and regret, that he had come jpour donner 
ma demission!'' that "'helas! ce hmi M. Jac" was so totally 


102 


THE SCHOOL FOB, FATHEES. 


unfit for the line of study Sir Thomas wished him to pursue, 
that after giving him all his attention and care, the Ahhe, 
seeing that his pupil’s mind was utterly incapable of even a 
glimmer of light in mathematics, and that he could not make 
him pronounce or remember one word of French, considered 
that he should be robbing Sir Thomas if he continued to attend 
his son. As for helles:lettTe^ and history, the Abbe shrugged 
his shoulders, and had recourse to a pinch of snuff. It was 
in vain that Sir Thomas endeavored to alter the priest’s de- 
termination. 

“ Ne me^n parlez plus. Sire Ouarrene^^ he answered, 
politely but firmly ; “ vous mefferez de la peine. Je ne con- 
sentirai jamais a vous faire un vol ; et faire semblant d’in- 
struire ce bon M. Jac — ma foi ! — ” and he spread out his arms, 
shook his head, and bowed. The Abbe concluded by hoping 
Sir Thomas would not view him with an evil eye for his 
* 'franchise,'' as he had persevered till he found his pupil 
thoroughly impracticable. Sir Thomas assured him of his 
esteem, and M. Potelle withdrew, bowing and backing out 
of the room with a lightened heart and a clear conscience. 

Jack’s little request was peremptorily refused. Jack was 
obliged to make the best of it, and to look forward to a long 
summer with his father, and a certain beetle-browed book- 
worm, in rusty black, engaged by Sir Thomas as tutor to his 
son during his stay in the country ; and from whom the Bar- 
onet expected better things than from the Abbe. “ The 
French are very agreeable,” thought Sir Thomas, to console 
himself for the Abbe’s secession, but they are loo volage for 
tutors. Jack is not bright, but the Abbe must have exagger- 
ated — got tired of his task : a child of mine could never be so 
idiotic as he makes Jack out to be ; never ! I hope more 
from Dr. Spark : besides, there are two livings in my gift to 
lure him on. Nous yex-rong'^ 

That is all the Abbe gained by his honesty. Then the 


THE VICARAGE AT SPRING-TIME; 


103 


Baronet, his son, and household left the metropolis for the 
cool woods, fresh streams, lovely park, and fresh air of Stan- 
ley Manor. 

The winter season was over for little Lydia in her quiet 
country retreat, as well as for Jack in his father’s town man- 
sion. She had seen her crocusses come up, and her innocent- 
looking little snow-drops, as pretty and as pure as herself. 
She beheld the smallest twigs of the trees thickening with 
buds; these had swelled, opened, and the trees were covered 
with the beautiful, bright, yellow-green leaves of spring. She 
made posies of violets, primroses, and cowslips, wherewith to 
deck the Vicarage and render it gay and fragrant. Then 
there was such a hattice of cowslips for the purpose of mak- 
ing wine ! She listened with smiling delight to blackbirds, 
thrushes, and all the other birds singing and calling from tree 
and bush, while the sky-lark balanced himself over the fields 
with the gayest song of all ; the large black rooks sailed caw- 
ing to and fro, and sped about in the air advancing, facing 
about, wheeling, retreating, like a large black regiment, and 
then scattering like a Seminaire let out for recreation. The 
sweet-brier smelt so sweet, the evenings were so serene, the 
moon arose so calmly, and the stars looked out one after the 
other so tranquilly grand, that Lydia and the Vicar would 
wander about the garden till supper-time ; the good doctor 
delighted with all his little “ Puss's ” sensible but innocent 
remarks. 

Lydia was one of those happy, but rare beings, who have 
only to follow the natural inclination of their souls to do all 
that is good and right ; as far as fallen creatures can do so. 
Her placid countenance and steady gentle eyes could never 
have been the accompaniments to a turbulent or passionate 
mind. In them you could read innocence, purity, good sense, 
sweet temper, patience, gentleness, affection, content, cheerful- 
ness, and consequent happiness ; for little Lydia was very 


104 


THE SCHOOL EOE, EATHEES. 


happy and very serene. She was none of those talented, gift- 
ed, strong-minded, energetic, highly intelligent restless, 
set-the-world-to-rights, turbulent females, selfish, conceited, 
and arrogant ; the pests of every one who has the misfortune 
to know them : ever meddling, advising, dragooning in all 
things, from the food of an infant to the politics and faith of 
a man. Outcasts are they from both sexes ; hovering t)n the 
confines of each, belonging to neither. Lydia was not of 
these ; hut Lydia had her little fault, I grieve to write it : 
still it was a gentle, amiable defect ; against which the Vicar 
did all he could to warn and strengthen her. The worthy 
doctor had the same defect himself; and well he knew it, 
and successfully had fought against it. 

Her fault was a softness of character, which rendered her 
easy to be led away by others, and apt to follow the modes 
of those she might be with, against her better sense and judg- 
ment. She might, with this softness and a pure innocence 
which could not imagine wrong, have been led into the depths 
of folly and harm. I have known beings like Lydia led away 
by giddy, headstrong sisters — girls who shrink at nothing, or 
married women who care for nothing ; led away through their 
yielding nature, their eyes closed by their own purity to all 
the harm around them ; led away till they are lightly spoken 
of, looked upon as “ one of the set” they are with, their repu- 
tation breathed upon and dim as though they had transgress- 
ed, yet remaining as purely innocent as ever. 

Beings of this gentle species, beware ! Whenever you hear 
much laughter, one word of slang, one witty saying accom- 
panied by a look neither of which you understand ; when you 
find this passing among men and women, even if they are 
your nearest and dearest, follow not blindly ; think not it is 
great fun f but pause and reflect, and turn away. A pure 
white garment should have no spot on it. No man would 
have “ great fun” with a being he could respect or value : 


A GREAT SHUT-UP COUNTPuY HOUSE. 


105 


pure innocence must be respected. “ Great fun'' then, as 
well as excited laughter and manners en suite, are for beings 
whom, Horn some cause or other, they can not respect. 
Beware then of great fun:" you may not see the dessous 
des cartes, or all that lurks beneath the surface ; but where 
you see that, pause, reflect, beware ! 

Strange to say 1 have never met with such a character as 
Lydia’s but this little defect accompanied it, as the shadow 
does the substance. But little Lydia was in good hands, and 
Dr. Freeman strengthened the weak part of her character 
without injuring or altering the rest ; so we may, I think, 
taking her altogether, look upon her as a very charming, 
amiable, perfect little creature : as far as perfection goes id 
has, which I fear me much is not very far. 

Matters continued m statu quo in Dr. Freeman’s parish, 
but in the parish adjoining was a great stir. With spring 
arrived numerous workmen from London and various country 
towns. These proceeded en masse to the great shut-up 
house," as a beautiful Elizabethan mansion on the brow of a 
wooded hill was popularly called in the neighborhood. This 
abode and the fine estate it stood upon, were the property of 
Ralph Addison, Esq., who had not been near it for twenty 
years ; during which time an old man, his wife and daughter 
— rumor added a ghost to the party — had had charge of it. 
The proprietor, being a hater of the country and all belonging 
to it, passed his days at Paris, Rome, Naples, Berlin, Dresden, 
Vienna, and sometimes London ; until the hour arrived in 
which he breathed his last, leaving his body to Italian ground, 
a good dower to his widow, and all his estates to his son, 
Philip Addison, Esq. ; whose intention it was to dwell in the 
Elizabethan mansion above mentioned, and to offer a home 
there to his mother : which she readily accepted. 

It was matter of great amazement to Lydia to think that 
*‘the great shut-up house” should be opened and dwelt in. 

E* 


1 


106 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


All her life long it had been closed, and she could not imagine 
such a thing possible as that it ever had been opened, or ever 
could be again ! The real name of the house vv’as Abbot^s 
Manor. The shutters were unclosed ; windows mended ; 
paint-brushes at work ; tilers and masons repairing ; boys 
weeding ; gardeners pruning, tying up, raking, digging ; 
wheel-barrows traveling in all directions ; furniture arriving ; 
wagons unloading; coals coming in; servants appearing — 
rather timid about the ghost, and going about in pairs after 
dusk ; old man, wife, and daughter, who was born in the 
house, retiring to a snug cot on the estate ; and, finally, the 
master himself one fine evening arrived on horseback, followed 
by a groom leading a third horse carrying the baggage. 

When this event took place spring had turned to summer : 
spring flowers had given place to their successors ; the pale 
fresh green of the verdure had changed to a darker and more 
solid shade ; the cricket chirped all over the face of the 
country ; the snake lay coiled on sunny banks or dragged his 
strong but heavy length through the yielding grass and 
flowers ; loudly sang the nightingale throughout the night ; 
summer storms arose with all the majesty of lightning, rolling 
thunder, and dashing rain ; the sun shone fervid and bright, 
and made dark shadows sharp, and darker still ; the Vicar 
read, and wrote, and dozed beneath his splendid trees ; flies 
buzzed, and humming bees, from Mistress Freeman’s hives, 
dived into all the flowers ; the green outer blinds of the Vicar- 
age being closed, kept all obscure and cool within, till the 
evening breeze began to blow gently, and lightly, and sooth- 
ingly among the rustling trees ; the droning sound of the 
church clock, slow and even, and distinct, told how the 
summer hours were passing ; the distant whistle of a country 
boy added drowsiness to the drowsy air ; the Vicar’s kine stood 
in the pond beneath the meadow trees, lazily lashing away 
the insects by means of their long tails ; the ducks slept on the 


A HOT SUMMER IN THE COUNTRY. 


107 


bank ; 'and the comely \Yell-shaped swine wallowed in the 
cool, wet, muddy ditch. 

These things are of every-day occurrence in the country, and 
there are poor human beings in ill-favored courts and alleys 
about town who have no idea of them ! — So it is ! 

Hotter and hotter still grew the summer ! Dr. Freefnan, 
with an umbrella over his head, proceeded, one dazzling after- 
noon, at his fat and gentle cob’s slowest pace, to pay his 
respects to his new neighbor, and returned much exhausted, 
without having found him at home. Abbot’s Manor was still 
in disorder, and the owner’s mother not expected till the 
autumn ; remaining until then with her daughter, who was 
married and lived some twenty miles off. 

Hotter and hotter still grew the summer ! The air seemed 
to blink and twinkle with the heat ; the earth was parched 
and cracked, and threw back the sun’s rays with oven-lilre 
heat. 

Lydia, after passing the morning in household duties with 
Mrs. Freeman, rethed after dinner, one enervating afternoon, 
sleepy and tired as a little child; to repose on the sofa of her 
large and airy room. The closed blinds rendered it dark and 
c(5ol ; the honeysuckle around the window gave forth a re- 
freshing perfume ; Lydia drew from her pocket a letter re- 
ceived that morning from Jack, and began to peruse it. Jack 
gave her a description, as well as he was capable of doing, of 
the beauties and delights of Sir Thomas’s country seat ; saying 
he was happier there than in town, but that time passed 
heavily with Dr. Spark, and that his father gave dinner 
parties to his country neighbors, insisting on Jack’s assisting 
in doing the honors, which he hated ; and that he looked 
forward more and more to his marriage with Lydia, who was 
worth all the fine London ladies twenty times over, with their 
patches, and airs, and graces. He^ wound up by his usual 
protestations of undying love, and by assuring her that Stanley 


108 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Manor was so beautiful and so pleasant that it only wanted a 
pack of fox-hounds and her dear self” to make it quite 
complete. 

“•Dear Jack,’’ sighed Lydia, as she always did when she 
had read one of his blunt, honest billets-doux ; and then, 
arranging her pillows and cushions more comfortably, she 
began for the third time to peruse his epistle. Sleep was 
stealing on her : she still heard the buzz of the insects and 
the hum of the bees, but Jack’s vigorous pothooks and hangers 
swam from before her sight — the letter dropt on the floor — 
she opened her eyes— the heavy lids closed again, and pretty 
littld Lydia slept, and smiled in her innocent slumbers as .she 
did in the days of her playful childhood. And for two long 
hours little Lydia slept. The sun began to think of descend- 
ing toward earth ^nd ocean : but still the heat was great ; 
the village cows were slowly wending their way from fields, 
along the dusty roads, to their respective milking-places. 
Mistress Freeman had looked into Lydia’s room, dressed for 
a charitable stroll through the parish ; but seeing her sleep so 
sweetly, she gently kissed her, and sallied forth alone. 

Lydia slept, and Lydia dreamt. She thought she was in 
a wood under the dark trees, and she heard a beautiful voiced, 
very deep and very rich. She thought the voice sang, and 
sometimes it was very near, and sometimes it was afar ofi’ — 
and then it laughed, and then it sang again — and she ran 
about the wood to find the owner of the voice — but all in 
vain : there was the beautiful voice — but no one could Lydia 
see, nor could she find from whence the sound proceeded. 
Lydia awoke in part — still she heard the voice : but instead 
of singing, it spoke ; and she thought, between sleeping and 
waking, that she should then be able to discover to whom it 
belonged. 

Lydia awoke quite : stiU she heard the voice ! The voice 
was the same she heard in her dream, deep, strong, and rich ; 


THE DEEAM-VOICE AND THE LIVING SPEAKER. 109 


but it did not sing : it talked and laughed. Lydia sat up 
and listened for an instant. “Who can it be “I” she thought: 
“ I’m sure it is not Hoger Brown.” She arose and stepped 
softly to the window ; in doing so she kicked poor Jack’s 
letter, which lay on the floor. Just then the Vicar’s voice 
sounded in answer to the other. 

“Very good — very smart indeed, and well turned! Ha! 
ha ! ha !” and Dr. Freeman laughed his fat, soft, good-natured 
laugh. Lydia very gently pushed open her blind, just suffi- 
ciently to enable her to see the owner of the voice — the per- 
son she had hunted for so vainly in the wood during her 
dream. 

There he stood by the side of the Vicar ; both of them 
with their backs toward the house, in the shade it was begin- 
ning to cast on the drive and lawn in front. 

“ It must be Mr. Addison !” thought Lydia, fixing her 
eyes on the stranger ; and feeling an unknown pleasure and 
fascination in so doing, and in listening, without heeding the 
words, to the voice that had so charmed and perplexed her 
in the dream she had just awoke from. 

Lydia had rightly guessed ; the man who stood beside her 
father was Philip Addison, the newly-arrived proprietor of 
Abbot’s Manor. 

He was dressed in very deep mourning, his long boots and 
black spurs powdered with dust from riding along the hot and 
dazzling road. In one hand he held a pair of fringed gloves, 
his whip in the other, and both crossed behind him. Lydia 
thought she had never beheld hands so white or so beautifully 
formed ; and Lydia was right : they were very different from 
poor Jack’s; and even from her dear Papa's'^ little round 
fat ones, not to mention the Rev. Roger Brown’s. 

Mr. Addison was of middle stature ; his strong, wide shoul- 
ders and deep chest were shown off to the greatest advantage 

the coat without collar then worn ; and there was an easy 


110 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


supple grace in his small waist, and in the firm but light 
manner in which he stood up on his small well formed feet, 
which contrasted strongly with the good old Vicar’s portly 
figure and sturdy term. His head was firmly but very grace- 
fully set on his shoulders, his little plain three-cornered hat 
thrown on carelessly on one side over the right eye, with the 
military air which pervaded his whole tournure and manner. 
Lydia did not note these several particulars ; but the tout en- 
semble of this suddenly-beheld personage charmed her, she 
^ knew not why. 

“ I wdsh he would turn his face toward Papa,” she said to 
herself. As though he had heard her, he did so; but, Dr. 
Freeman being on his right, the little hat only allowed Lydia 
to perceive, between that and the soft white stock, a firm 
well-cut mouth, smiling and handsome, and a Napoleon jaw 
and chin of the finest proportions. She did not behold his 
high white forehead, straight and well-shaped nose with the 
chiseled flexible nostrils, or his deep-set violet eyes, rendered 
dark by his thick black eyebrows and long black lashes ; the 
whole rendered soft and rich by the snow-white powder in his 
hair, which was simply turned off his forehead, curled at the 
sides, and tied by a broad ribbon forming a long bow and 
ends. He was pale without being sallow or sickly looking, 
in age not far from forty ; his expression enjoue, with a slight 
dash of gravity now and then, firm without sternness : a man 
who had evidently seen much, who could guess thoughts, and 
understand at one word where some would have required a 
long explanation. 

Dr. Freeman rubbed his hands, stroked his well-shorn 
double chin, quoted Latin and Greek, smiled, laughed, and 
gave unequivocal signs of being highly delighted and charmed 
with his new acquaintance. 

Lydia, her little soft hands reposing one in the other, with a 
half smile on her pink lips, and animation in her gentle eyes 


THE VICAR AND HIS PETS. 


Ill 


continued to survey, from the shelter of the green blinds, 
the person beneath her window ; until that person suddenly 
pointing with his whip to the shrubbery, which led to the 
stables, exclaimed : 

“ Oh I — look there — how odd — how very pretty !” 

This exclamation was caused by the apparition of two in- 
dividuals from the shrubbery, stepping soberly along, one a 
little in advance of the other, and both wearing a meek air 
of virtue, and duty, and goodness which strangely became 
them. One gently nodded its head up and down as it ad- 
vanced ; the other, on the contrary, held it stiff and straight, 
merely fixing a pair of soft, dark eyes on the Vicar the mo- 
ment it saw him. He looked fondly toward them, and said : 

“Those are Phoebe and Chloe — my mare and Newfound- 
land ; and huge friends they are, I assure you. Chloe knows 
when the groom goes to saddle Phoebe, and then she lies down 
with her nose between her paws, watching him. The minute 
he has done, up she jumps, the rein is put into her mouth, and 
she leads Phoebe up to the door as you now see ; and not only 
that, but she follows me in my ride, and when we get home 
again, I give her the rein and she leads her friend back to her 
stable. If the lad happens not to be in the way, Chloe barks 
till he comes. Now, just watch them !”* 

The round, fat, snow-white cob, with its forelock combed 
meekly down, and its sagacious, good-tempered eyes, now ar- 
rived at the door — exactly in front of it, as neither of the friends 
stopped till they reached that precise spot ; then Chloe, who 
was also milk-white, sat herself down in front of PhoBbe, and 
wagging her long, feathery tail to and fro on the gravel, brush- 
ed it about, while she kept her tender eyes steadily fixed on her 
master, the cob also looking round at him from time to time. 

Mr. Addison expressed his astonishment and admiration^ 
the Vicar looking with proud affection at his two pets. 

* This is a fact. 


112 


THE SCHOOL EOE FATHERS. 


“ They’re expecting their little treat, he said. Lyddie ! 
Lyddie ! are you in your room — Pussy ?” 

“ Yes, papa!” lisped Lydia, taking two steps backward. 

“ Come down, my child ! Phcebe and Chloe are waiting 
for their treat 1” 

“Yes, papa,” and Lydia trod on Jack’s open letter. She 
stooped, picked it up, smoothed it, folded it, put it in her 
pocket, looked at herself in her oval glass, with its soft muslin 
furniture, arranged her hair and breast-knot, and then ran 
lightly down stairs. 

Presently the sound of her little footsteps were heard step- 
ping along in her high-heeled shoes, and she appeared at the 
hall-door, bearing a china plate, on which were a piece of 
cake and a large slice of bread. At this sight, Phcebe turned 
her head and stamped with her foot, while Chloe’s tail brush- 
ed very vehemently ; but she did not quit her post or let go 
the rein : Chloe was a very discreet, well-bred canine. 

“ Come hither, my Lyddie,” said Dr. Freeman ; “ I must 
make you acquainted with Mr. Addison, our new neighbor — 
a gentleman of good parts and great understanding, I assure 
you ! And this, sir, is my little Lydia — my only child — nearly 
as great a favorite as Phoebe and Chloe ! Eh, Pussy?” 

Mr. Addison took off his hat, and bowed to Lydia with the 
air of a soldier and a courtier, and then, stepping one step 
back, put his hat under his arm ; while she blushed, making 
a pretty little courtsey, without daring to look at him, but 
noting what a sweet smell of violets emanated from him. 

Phoebe and Chloe were very much tantalized by these bows 
and courtesies ; their treat so near at hand, but yet withheld 
from them. 

Lydia first gave Phcebe a bit of bread, which she took very 
delicately and gently with her velvet lips ; then taking the 
rein from Chloe and putting it into the Vicar’s hand, she 
proceeded to break a piece of cake. No sooner had she taken 


A BANGEHOUS PJV^L. 


113 


the rein, than Chloe, with a virtuous, but wistful countenance, 
sat up and begged, drooping her fore-paws, and holding them 
very tight against her, till the cake was presented, and taken 
without any vulgar snapping or noise. 

Lydia was very intent on her task. Dr. Freeman very in- 
tent on watching his “ three pets” as he called them. Mr. 
Addison therefore seized that opportunity of surveying Lydia, 
as intently as she had some minutes previously surveyed him. 
She would have started if she could have seen his dark keen 
eyes fixed upon her : when Dr. Freeman looked up they were 
benevolently watching the cob and Chloe. The result of his 
survey of Lydia was the following inward exclamation to him- 
self : 

*■ ’Gad ! she’s the sweetest, most innocent little creature I 
ever clapped eyes on !” 

The repast being over and another steed having joined the 
party, brought round by the groom, the two gentlemen mount- 
ed their horses ; which were quite in character with the ap- 
pearance of their riders. 

Mr. Addison’s was a splendid animal, with gleaming eyes, 
small head, wide open nostrils ; large, powerful, swift, and 
spirited. His master gathered up the reins, put his toe- in the 
stirrup, and mounted. Lydia had seen Jack on his hunter, 
but Mr. Addison was very different. He seemed one with 
his horse, and so easy and supple, his position so perfect from 
head to foot, that the Vicar, from Phoebe’s back, launched out 
in a quotation respecting the Centaurs. 

I vow. Doctor,” said the man so addressed, “you put me 
to the blush ! Mistress Lydia, I am the most humble of your 
slaves !” And so saying, with another courtly bow he turned 
to depart ; the Vicar telling his daughter not to expect him 
back till bedtime, as he was going to Abbot’s Manor to pass 
the evening and see the improvements. 

Lydia watched them down the road ; Phoebe steadily trot- 


114 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHERS. 


ting, Mr. Addison’s horse prancing, curveting, and, as Lydia 
thought, behaving very ill. Little did she think the rider 
was the cause of it, all for her especial gratification. He felt 
sure she would watch them quite out of sight ; and so she 
did : and then the cloud of dust they had left behind them 
subsided, and Lydia returned to her room. She pushed hack 
the blinds and looked out, and thought the garden appeared 
quite deserted ! 

She then went to the little Indian cabinet, took from it the 
packet of Jack’s letters, untied the pink ribbon, added the last 
comer to the collection, and shut them up again. 

Mistress Freeman returned from the village, bringing poor 
Roger Brown with her, whom she had invited to tea and 
supper ; Roger, like an insect who will persevere in buzzing 
into and burning himself with the flame of a candle, having 
accepted. Mistress Freeman was the most compassionate 
of human beings. She was of a pensive nature, sad, and 
pitied every thing and every body. Roger stood high in her 
compassion : she always called him Poor, dear Mr. Brown 
and many little comforts and luxuries did he owe to the com- 
passionate kindness of Mistress Freeman. Could she have 
seen the thoughts of “poor, dear Mr. Brown’s” heart, and 
his miserable, dejecting passion for Lydia, what would she 
have said ? I think she would have shot him : with pitying 
compassion ending his hopeless misery. She did sometimes 
say, “ if poor, dear Mr. Brown were not so good and pious a 
man, I should think he had something on his mind !” 

The party was not very gay. Mistress Freeman was tired 
and pensive, Lydia silent and thinking about Mr. Addison, 
Roger Brown shy and taciturn ; looking hideous, as he sat 
up with his tea-cup in one hand and a large slice of cake in 
the other. Roger was always hungry and always thin. 

Lydia, as the evening wore on, listened to every sound ; 
thinking it high time the Vicar should return, and relate the 


LYDIA’S REPLY. 


115 


events of his visit. When at length he did arrive he was in 
raptures with Abbot’s Manor and its owner. 

“ Mr. Addison,” he said, “ is the most polished of men : 
a true gentleman — not a fop, but a gentleman both in mind 
and manners. Then, too, he is vastly erudite ; he seems to 
know every thing, and can listen to, and talk on any subject 
without pedantry or afiectation ; not as if he had ever been 
at the pains of acquiring knowledge, but as if it were natural 
to him — born with him ! I never met with so charming a 
companion. He has traveled every where and seen every 
thing thoroughly : not merely scampered here and there, just 
to say he had been at such and such a place. He relates his 
adventures and makes his observations, too, with so much 
plainness, and in so unaffected, easy a manner, that it adds 
ten-fold to the charm of his conversation. I hope to see a 
great deal of him. Lyddie, my child, did not you think him 
very polished, and very good-looking to boot ?” 

Lydia, thus addressed, bent her head over a little china jar 
of flowers, and concealing her face by smelling them, she 
replied : 

“ I don’t know, papa; I hardly saw him !” 

Roger Brown’s heart was fluttering with agony. He alone 
had observed Lydia. They say Love is blind, and they say 
Love is lynx-eyed ! Which is it ? De deux choses Vune ! 
Lynx-eyed ? The little fellow would look very ugly ! How- 
ever, poor Roger had observed Lydia, and Roger assured 
himself that Lydia had observed Mr. Addison ; that Lydia 
thought him perfect, that Lydia loved him, that he of course 
must love Lydia ; that they would marry, and he should 
die. He knew nothing about Jack Warren. Roger felt 
very faint, and, in a meek, faint voice, he said : 

“ I must bid good-night — it’s getting late,” and he arose 
^and took up his stick and his great clumsy hat. 

“ No, no, my friend,” said the Doctor, “ you must stay a 


m 


116 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


little longer, and weTl smoke a pipe of tobacco under , the 
trees. Mr. Addison can’t smoke : he says he did so in 
Turkey, to conform to the mode ; but that the Oriental to- 
bacco is so very different to what we smoke here — as dif- 
ferent as satin is to sailcloth, he said.” 

But no ! — Roger would depart : and depart he did ; rush- 
ing along as though there had been a hard frost, and arriving 
at his two rooms as miserable as it was possible for mortal 
man to be. 

“ Poor, dear Mr. Brown !” exclaimed Mistress Freeman, 
•with a sigh. “ I’m sure he’s going to be ill ! — Poor man !” 

“ Who would suppose,” cried the Vicar, that my poor 
scarecrow Brown and Mr. Addison were of the same race ? 
Both men ; yet how different. You should have heard my 
new friend talk of Rome and Greece — ’Gad, it set me mad- 
ding to be off there !” 

“Lor! my dear,” cried his wife : “what Romel Why, 
ain’t that where the Pope lives ? — poor, dear benighted man !” 

“ To be sure : but I don’t think he’d eat me, my love. 
There are at Rome such mighty remains of the great city, 
such magnificent ruins, such works of art, such — oh ! dear, 
oh ! dear, I do think I shall never die in peace till I see it 
all !” 

“ Well 1” said Mistress Freeman, with a sigh, “ for my 
part I’d rather have a cot in England than dwell among the 
heathen ! I’m afraid poor Mr. Addison’s a very dangerous 
companion for you, my dear — unsettling your mind, and mak- 
ing you so wild !” 

The Doctor laughed. 

“ Why do you call him ‘ poor Mr. Addison V he’s a fine 
strong fellow, and as rich as a Jew ! Abbot’s Manor is such 
a lovely place, and Mr. Addison’s taste is so refined ! I’m 
to take you over there some cool evening, my Lyddie, to see 
it all ; and I’m sure you’ll be hugely pleased with it. He 


A GAY AND GALLANT SOLDIEU. 


117 


has some very fine paintings — in short, he’s quite a virtuoso. 
But come, light my candle. Pussy, and I’ll be off to bed, or I 
shall stay talking of our accomplished neighbor all night.” 

The good old Vicar kissed Lydia’s forehead tenderly, and 
so withdrew. 

Philip Addison began life as a younger son ; was sent to 
school as soon as he came from nurse, and there well flogged 
and kept in order according to the old-fashioned plan. At 
sixteen his father submitted three different paths in life to 
him — Church — law — army ! At nine years pld the navy 
had been offered to him ; but, much as he hated school, he 
rejected the offer, having even then made up his' mind for the 
army. The army then he selected, and left school for 
pair of colors in a vmrcliing regiment. '' He was the 

beauty'* of the corps — a wild fellow enough — uttered a 

demme," or any other little oath then in vogue with a pe- 
culiar grace — made love wherever he went, pour passer le 
temps — fought the proper quantity of duels with coolness and 
effrontery — wrote poetry and played the violin — gambled — 
drank as a gentleman — could break the wildest horse and 
ride any thing — observed every thing — studied every char- 
acter around him without appearing to know that one man’s 
mind differed from another — in his wildest moments never 
made a mock of grave and solemn matters — was the friend 
of the distressed — a hater of fools — a capital drill — a thor- 
ough soldier — ^a promoter of athletic sports — kind-hearted — 
as brave as a lion — and an universal favorite with the fair 
sex. A merry life he led ! A wild young ensign — a gay 
)^oung lieutenant — a brilliant, rattling captain ! Many bleed- 
ing hearts he left behind him whenever the regiment got the 
route ; he whistled “ The girl I left behind me !” and looked 
forward to fresh conquests. At length his life was changed ! 

Captain Addison was detached with his company to a 
quiet little country town. He was then about five-and- 


118 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHEES. 


twenty. His lieutenant, a young man about his own age, 
named Gwynne — a fiery, impetuous Welshman, above all 
things anxious to outshine his captain among the ladies, per- 
petually thwarted in his wish by Addison, who supplanted 
him without knowing it — had conceived a hatred of the most 
bitter kind for him, founded on mortified vanity and unsuc- 
cessful rivalry. Gwynne was a fiat-faced, sandy-haired be- 
ing, slightly marked with small-pox ; strong as Hercules, but 
clumsily made ; wishing to be handsome, he believed himself 
to be so, and envied Addison his undoubted superiority in looks 
and manner. A charming companion to be detached with ! 
Addison despised, but never mortified him ; except involun- 
tarily. This added to Gwynne’s inveterate hatred : he had 
nothing to complain of, except that his captain was hand- 
somer and better-mannered than himself, and that he lost 
all his little conquests, real or imaginary, the moment Addi- 
son appeared. I believe great hatreds have sprung from less 
causes. 

Quiet little country towns have their belles, as well as 
London or any other great metropolis. Charlotte Paget was 
the belle of the little town in question; and on Charlotte 
Paget did Mr. Gwynne fix his afiection^ a few days after his 
arrival. He spoke to no one of the lovely being he had be- 
held : meaning to keep the discovery a secret and the lady 
to himself. It was in a field near her own dwelling that 
Gwynne lost his heart. His great dog had run at and ter- 
rified Charlotte’s little lap-dog ; he gallantly flew to the 
rescue, allayed her fears, praised her favorite, and left his 
inflammable heart in her keeping. She was a young, fresh 
girl about seventeen, a blush-rose in complexion, an angel 
in disposition— far too good for Mr. Gwynne, although Mr. 
Gwynne did not think so. She was one of a large family, 
children of Colonel Paget, a hrave en retraite, of a good but 
poor family, living in an old house about a mile from the town. 


LOVE IN COUNTRY QUARTERS. 


119 


On the Sunday following Gwynne’s discovery, Captain Ad- 
dison strolled into the country, and seeing the door of a little 
village church open, he entered. It so happened that this 
was Colonel Paget’s parish church ; and there, in a huge 
pew lined with green haize, sat the colonel surrounded by his 
wife and family. Addison’s scarlet coat, handsome face, and 
military mien, were a great distraction to the little con- 
gregation. The old soldier viewed him with feelings of sol- 
dierly pride. Charlotte thought him much superior to the 
ugly officer with the great rough dog ; and as for Addison, 
before church was over his heart was hers. Never had he 
beheld any one who had so charmed him ! Love in those 
days would appear to have been much more sudden — more 
frantic, and more lasting — than in these days of steam, 
platform oratory^ and “ women’s rights 

On quitting church, the colonel, bowing to Addison, ad- 
dressed him as a brother soldier; told him that he too had 
once served in his corps — the gallant — th. — Reader ! you 
may fill up the blank with the number of any regiment you 
may most favor ! — Then inviting him into his “ quarter,” 
Addison was soon as much at home there as if he had known 
them all his life. 

The visit was repeated again and again, and matters ended 
by Philip adoring Charlotte seriously ; and after a time, 
finding that nothing would make him happy but marrying 
her. Charlotte’s thoughts were precisely of the same na- 
ture toward Philip ; and many pleasant hours they passed 
in each other’s society. 

Poor G Wynne knew nothing of all this. 

A ball was given at the Town Hall. The officers of 
Captain Addison’s company as w^ell as the captain himself 
were, of course, present. Gwynne commenced a process then 
in vogue among impertinent fellows of spirit : namely, that 
of “og/mg” the object of his affections. What was his 


120 


THE SCHOOL FOR, FATHERS. 


horror ! what was his rage ! when he saw his captain lead 
her out in a minuet, to the admiration all beholders ? Smoth- 
ering his feelings, or at least concealing them, he carelessly 
begged Addison to introduce him to her ; which Addison did 
immediately. Gwynne, led on by his passion, and fearful 
that Addison should gain any advantage over him, made furious 
love to Charlotte : told her she was “ a dem fine creature, 
’pon honor !” and, before the evening was over, so far lost 
sight of reason and all things save Charlotte, that he actually 
made her an offer of his hand ; which she refused, with a 
laugh. Gwynne, furious, left the ball and returned home; 
love for Charlotte and hatred of Addison flaming in his breast 
with redoubled fury : for he felt sure that it was Addison — 
“ that infernal Addison '^ — who stood in his way. He 
knocked down his servant — kicked over his table— and so to 
bed. 

Addison’s frame of mind was very different from his lieu- 
tenant’s, when he reached his room, next door to Gwynne’s, 
about two hours after. The wall between them separated a 
furious man boiling over, tossing and rolling impatiently in 
his bed, from another, calmly and softly sleeping, happy as 
an angel. 

Addison having made up his mind that life would be as 
a bleak desert without Charlotte — that a good march and 
whistling “ The girl I left behind me !” would be powerless 
toward forgetting her — had that very morning proposed — 
been accepted — got the old colonel’s consent — written to his 
father to say how matters stood — and had passed a most 
happy evening in dancing with his beloved Charlotte. 

The ^^hajp'py day'' was fixed — parson and clerk applied to 
— friends invited — every thing in readiness. Gwynne, con- 
cealing his black hatred and wrath, was to be Philip’s “ best 
man'' Addison was radiant in smiles, and full dress uni 
form, hien ])oiidre, perfumed — handsome — a model bride- 


ASSASSINATION. 


121 


groom. The soldiers of that day wore their uniform, as 
foreigners do ; there was no odd-looking “ to be seen 

— a strange choice of raiment, semi-civil, semi-military. 

The wedding took place in the little village church where 
Addison had first seen Charlotte. Merrily and loudly rang 
the bells as the bride and bridegroom left the building. The 
brides-maids, her sisters, smiled on the “ cavalier who led 
them. The Spring sun shone warm and bright, the birds 
sang sweetly among the surrounding trees. Addison looked 
happier than man ever looked before. G Wynne smiled, but 
heard not a word that had been spoken since he entered the 
church : his throat was parched, his heart beat thickly and 
loud. As they reached the church-yard gates he dropped the 
hand of the lady ha led, and springing forward, in one instant 
he seized the bride firmly by the arm, placed the cold muzzle 
of a pistol against her soft white temple, fired, threw the 
pistol violently in Addison’s face, crossed his arms, grinning 
like a demon, nor attempted to escape, or resist the young 
men of the party who seized him. 

There lay Addison’s bride in a deluge of blood ! disfigured, 
not to be recognized. Poor Addison ! his happiness in one 
minute flown — gone ! He stood bewildered — scared ; looked 
on heaven — on earth — -it seemed a dream. He stood in 
Charlotte’s blood — he looked on her without appearing to 
see that on which he looked. 

On that day week he followed her coffin to the grave. 
The sun shone as brightly, the birds sang as sweetly as on his 
wedding-day. He looked on the spot where she fell — hurried 
home — called for brandy — drank madly — was carried to his 
bed in a raging fever. 

When he recovered he found that his company had rejoin- 
ed head-quarters, that G Wynne was in the county jail await- 
ing his trial, that the regiment was under orders for Ireland, 
and that he himself had been at death’s door. His soldier 

F 


122 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Bervant was with him, and had nursed him with a soldier’s 
care and cleverness. He easily got leave for the purpose of 
recovering his health, went home, found quiet insupportable, 
rejoined his regiment, found all his former pleasures insipid 
and tame, sold out and went on the Continent. Gwynne 
was executed, of course. 

Abroad all was new to Addison. Paris fixed him. He 
had good introductions, was in the first society, about court, 
very repandUy very dissipated, and known by the name of 
“Ze bel Anglais . But still he did not forget Charlotte; 
and her image only spurred him on to fresh dissipation and 
excess. He was ever restless and craving for novelty and 
excitement, joined as a volunteer in the wars then going 
on, and received many a dangerous wound ; but death ever 
spared him, as he said, for more misery. 

After a few years of this excitement, and feverish existence, 
reflection came with soothing powers. Addison had a lodging 
at Versailles, and at the window of it he lay one evening on 
his sofa, feeble, ill, and sorrowful : he had but just arisen from 
his bed; and that after many a weary day and night of pain 
and restlessness. And what for, in the name of Heaven ?” 
he asked himself “ What for ? I wish De Liancourt had 
made an end of me! Confound it! Women are all alike, 
every one of them. I risk my life for one, and she gives me 
up and goes over to my rival, because he half killed me ! 
Talk of the tenderness of the sex ! Tender enough as long as 
you flatter them, cajole them, and pass your time on your 
knees at their feet ! meet with a reverse, and see what becomes 
of their tenderness. Ugh ! The MarquisCy too, ^making a 
show of hating De Liancourt and despising marriage, and then, 
because he runs me through, she turns about and marries him : 
marries him, after all her vows and protestations to me ! and 
I fought on her account ! Stop my breath! I’m a fool and 
a madman : and she was the only v/oman, of the mob of fine 


A ROUE’S REFLECTIONS. 


123 


creatures of whom IVe been the humble slave and victorious 
despot, that I really cared about. Well! vogue la galere ; 
there are plenty more of ’em, and I’ve only to choose : I never 
saw the woman yet who could withstand me !” 

So it was : “ le bel Anglais'' had been the slave and despot 
of a charming young widow, who had “ registered a vow,” 
made to be broken, that never again should wedlock fetter 
her. The Vicomte de Liancourt, a friend and rival of 
Addison’s, also sighed for the enchanting Marquise de Villefort, 
and, irritated at the young widow’s preference for Addison, in- 
sulted him with a view to being called out. He succeeded, 
of course ; they fought ; the Vicomte, after a skillful combat, 
ran Addison through ; and before “ le bel Anglais" had half 
recovered from his dangerous wound, his rival was married to 
the Marquise ; and there was Addison, on a sultry summer 
evening, sick and weak, left to his own reflections. 

He reflected long and profoundly, and when midnight struck 
slowly and with a long vibration, and the moon was shining 
down upon him, his mind was made up. He had sifted his 
soul thoroughly, and found that he was tired to death of 
dissipation, excitement, and gayety ; that the recollection of 
Charlotte was now nothing more than a pale, melancholy 
shade, present only when he chose to recall it ; that he cared 
for nothing, and looked forward to nothing, and could never 
be at the pains to begin his man-of-the- world life again : in. 
short, that what was novelty and delight six years before, had 
now become old, faded, and flat. At this point of his reflec- 
tions,- atheism and suicide presented themselves to him, as Vice 
and Virtue did of yore to Hercules; but Addison shook his 
head, frowned, and the visions disappeared ; leaving him to 
battle on with the “ vanity and vexation of spirit,” which he 
saw all sublunary things to be. 

When his valet had undressed him and helped him to bed, 
when he was left by the soft light of the moon and his lamp, 


124 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


and a feeble breeze blew through bis window, when he had 
heard the old church clock strike one, he sunk to sleep, de- 
termined, as soon as he should have recovered, to retreat to 
Switzerland, and lead a life of mingled -exercise and study, 
recruit his purse and health, and try simple pleasures, after 
the turmoil and flutter he had plunged himself into. 

Addison put his resolve into execution. The usual three 
days' ivonder" complimented his departure ; rivals rejoiced, 
the powdered belles lamented — but only for three days. He 
installed himself at Lausanne, and seemed to breathe freely. 
He made the acquaintance of the pastor, and of his brother, a 
medical man ; both of them studious and learned, of sound 
judgment and cool heads, and therefore very w^ell suited to his 
present purpose. With them he studied theology, philosophy, 
and medical science ; walked with the pastor over mountain 
and valley, or rowed on the lake. By degrees his natural 
cheerfulness returned, in place of empty excitement : though 
it must be confessed he found his new life rather insipid at 
first, and more than once meditated a return to Paris. His 
two friends, however, strengthened him in his good resolutions, 
and urged him on to perseverance : services he never forgot as 
long as he lived. His health, too, became perfectly restored ; 
and the death of his brother made him an elder son, and 
effectually recruited his purse. 

His next move, after two years passed in Switzerland, was 
to make the tour of Europe ; which occupied him seven years, 
so thoroughly did he accomplish it. His father’s demise, which 
made him heir to vast estates, recalled him to England after 
an absence of fifteen years. He had left it full of despair and 
raging youth — he returned to it calm, consoled, contented, 
wise, and happy. 

Such is a brief description of Addison’s life. Small wonder 
that little Lydia should have viewed him with such astonished 
fascination : she who had hitherto only dwelt on the image 


STUDY AND TRAVEL. 


125 


of honest Jack Warren. Here was a man who had been 
mixed up in the most refined and elegant life of France, and 
who wore the air and manners of that life. Small wonder 
that Dr. Freeman should be so captivated with him ; his mind 
polished by study, travel, thought, and mixture with the best 
society ! 

Dr. Freeman was never tired of talking of him to his “ little 
puss,” and she never weary of her father’s theme. As for 
Addison, he never let more than three days pass without 
visiting the Vicarage. He told the Doctor that it was his 
intention to give England a fair trial, and if he found it answer 
his expectations that he should undoubtedly settle in it. 

“ Suppose, papa,” said Lydia, when the Vicar mentioned 
this resolve : “ suppose, papa, that Mr. Addison should not 
find England to his taste after being so long in foreign parts, 
what would become of you? You would ''be obliged to go 
with him !” 

“ And as I could never leave my three pets, why Lyddie, 
and PhoBbe, and Chloe must come too !” Hereupon Lydia 
laughed : but her laugh wound up with a little sigh, unheard 
by the Doctor. 

Mr. Addison never appeared to take more notice of Lydia 
than politeness warranted : indeed not half so much as he did 
of Mistress Freeman ; who thought him “ all very well, poor 
man, but too Frenchified to suit my taste.” Addison saw 
without looking, and not a gesture or look of Lydia’s was lost 
upon him. Lydia only looked at him, as it were, by stealth : 
but that was quite enough ; and pretty little Lydia sat at work 
with downcast eyes, listening to every word he said : not 
exactly understanding them all, but thinking the voice she first 
heard in her dream more charming from day to day. / 

It was quite d, fete for her when she visited AbboUs Manor, 
“ the great shut~up house , one lovely summer evening. 
Phcebe was led up to the door by Chloe, and on Phoebe’s 


126 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


back was a pillion ; on which, behind the Vicar, Lydia was 
to proceed to Mr. Addison’s. 

She looked like one of Greuze’s most lovely pictures, wrap- 
ped up in her black silk mantle with its black lace trimming ; 
her face shaded by a little straw hat, with a wreath of blue 
satin ribbon and long ends ; one little hand in a black mitten 
passed through the strap round her father’s waist, the other 
holding her fan, resting upon her knees ; her little feet, en- 
cased in Spanish leather shoes decked with “dear Jack’s” 
gift of gold buckles, rested on the board attached to the pillion. 
Phoebe nodded her head and stepped firmly and soberly along, 
Chloe frisked and ran to and fro, the Vicar talked and laugh- 
ed, and so did Lydia: but Lydia thought they should never 
arrive at the “ great shut-up house.'' 

At the lodge-gates they found Mr. Addison w^aiting for 
them. A pleased expression beamed in his look as they drew 
nigh, but his mouth remained firm and grave. He greeted 
Lydia with his usual courtly bow, and shaking hands with 
the Doctor, patting Phoebe, and noticing Chloe, he proceeded 
to walk by the side of the cob, just between Lydia and the 
Vicar, resting the tip of his fore-finger on the extreme edge 
of the foot-board. Lydia had opened her fan, and gently 
fanned herself, with a little air of agitation marked by Mr. 
Addison. She observed him from time to time from behind 
her fan — cunning little manoeuvre for Lydia, but he saw it 
without her being aware of the fact. 

Lydia thought him quite perfect, in his black velvet suit, 
his thin silk stockings, and thin high-heeled shoes with the 
black buckles. “ ie hel Anglais" had been famed for the 
beauty of his leg and foot — which in that day was an essen- 
tial mark of “ blood” — and they remained as perfectly well 
formed as ever. Lydia could not help thinking of her absent 
lover’s thick ankles and clumsy shoes ; also of the Lincoln- 
green suit so heavy and iU cut, and the way his sword dan- 


LYDIA AND MR. ADDISON. 


127 


gled against his legs, instead of being m hroche, like Mr. Ad- 
dison’s. She hung her head, closed her fan, opened it, sighed, 
and said to herself — ''poor Jack'' The doctor was repeating 
Greek verses, and marking the emphasis with his whip. Ad- 
dison looked from beneath his eyebrows furtively at Lydia, 
and was struck by the pensive air she wore. “ There is no 
doubt of it,” was his inward observation ; he smiled, and the 
Doctor having finished his harangue, he responded in the same 
sonorous tongue ; which little Lydia thought showed off his 
voice to great advantage. 

On reaching the terrace, which extended the whole length 
of the front of the house, Mr. Addison lightly clasped Lydia’s 
small round w'aist with both his hands ; she gave a spring 
and stood on the ground before him. Lydia’s heart fluttered, 
and she said to herself, “ How very shy and silly I am : poor 
Jack has often jumped me off Phoebe, and I never minded it 
at all !” Foolish little Lydia. 

A groom having taken the cob, the Doctor began to ascend 
the steps of the terrace, ecstasizing over the splendid view. 
Mr. Addison with a bow presented his hand to Lydia, who 
placed the tips of her fingers along his fore-finger, where he 
lightly retained them with his thumb ; but, slight as the 
touch was, he felt a tremulous vibration in Lydia’s soft fin- 
gers, which without a muscle of his face moving spread an 
universal smile over it. 

“ Eh! chere petite," he said to himself, as he gallanted her 
up the steps and across the wide stone terrace into the large 
cool hall. 

Abbot’s Manor formed three sides of a square, the blank 
side being to the rear of the mansion. The terrace (which, 
as before observed, extended the whole length of the front of 
the house), was very wide and paved with stone, surrounded 
by a heavy stone balustrade, except where it was approached 
by the long shallow steps. The hall reached to the top of the 


128 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


house, the dark oak staircase being on the left. Mr. Addison 
conducted his guests to a large long room on the right, entirely- 
covered with paintings ; some originals, others splendid copies 
from the best masters. In the middle stood a marqueterie 
table, on which tea, cakes, fruit, and preserves were placed. 

“ You will like some refreshment after your ride,” said Mr. 
Addison, seating Lydia at the table. “ I came here on horse- 
back, and I have neither coach nor chariot yet : not so much 
as a sedan chair, or I should have made bold to have put them 
at y^our orders.” 

“ Thank you, my good sir, thank you,” replied the Vicar. 
“ My Lyddie is well used to jaunt about behind her old father. 
Many a pleasant mile we’ve been together.” 

Lydia had in her short life beheld no paintings, save a few 
family portraits. After tea Mr. Addison conducted her round 
the gallery, much interested and pleased at \iQX naive ques- 
tions, and modest little observations. Some of the large som- 
bre pictures — a martyrdom of St. Sebastian, especially — 
struck her with a vague sensation of awe and dread. The 
saint was represented the size of life, his face pale and full of 
agony, the arrow wounds awfully real ; he appeared faint, at 
the very point of death, the whole brought out by a misty and 
very dark background. There was a silence and majesty in the 
air of the painting, and a life-like reality in the figure, which 
made Lydia shiver. Mr. Addison perceived it, and said : 

“ That is a fine picture ; but I think this little painting 
will be more to your taste : St. Sebastian has an air of 
grandeur, but these fittle persons have something infinitely 
gay about them, and are more likely to please you.” 

Lydia looked at the picture he pointed out to her. It was 
a small oval, representing a little Cupid at the feet of a little 
fat girl of his own age, to whom he was offering his weapons 
with an air of passionate gallantry, which she was accepting 
with a little air of lively coquetry ; the two doves fluttering 


THE PICTURE. 


129 


round them as though they were showing their approbation 
of the scene. There was a bright rosy tint over the painting, 
and little Lydia smiled with delight at it ; could hardly tear 
herself away to inspect the others, still returning to the gal- 
lant Cupid and the charming little girl. 

Mr. Addison took the painting from the wall. 

“You must do me the favor. Dr. Freeman,” he said, “to 
allow me to engage Mistress Lydia to hang up this painting 
in her room. I hope she will not refuse to do so.” 

Lydia raised her eyes and endeavored to speak, but in so 
doing her eyes met Addison’s, and the look darted from them 
caused Lydia to look on the ground, open and shut her fan, 
and say nothing. Dr. Freeman, not having perceived these 
little particulars, spoke as follows : 

“ Indeed, I can not find it in my heart to forbid my dear 
little pussy’s accepting so pretty a gift. I shall only require 
her to place it in the parlor, where all eyes may view it. 
Gad ! I shall turn it into Latin verse, and send my attempt 
to an erudite friend of mine. I must leave my Lyddie to 
thank you herself, sir ! Her little rosy lips will do so far bet- 
ter than I can.” 

“ Indeed, my dear papa, I do not know what to say,” 
lisped Lydia in a soft and rather tremulous voice. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Addison,” she added, and put out her 
hand to him, which he gallantly raised to his lips. It was a 
common politesse in the world, but the Vicar’s daughter had 
never been in the world ; and when she felt her trembling: 
hand touched by Mr. Addison’s lips, her heart beat so vio- 
lently that poor little Lydia felt as though she were going to 
faint. Mr. Addison clearly perceived it, and addressed him- 
self to the Vicar ; giving her time to recover herself by so 
doing. He then presented his hand and conducted Lydia 
and the Doctor over the house. 

His own room gave Lydia the greatest pleasure. That, 


130 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


too, as all other rooms, was ornamented with paintings; por- 
traits of celebrated warriors, pictures of battles, some of them 
by Wouvermans, landscapes by the best masters, and, in an 
oval frame, delicately wrought, the representation of a per- 
fectly beautiful little Marquise I There were bookcases 
filled with volumes of all sizes, redolent of Russia leather ; 
there was a large marqueterie secretaire with slender legs ; 
there were small copies in marble^ and in bronze of antique 
statues ; there were three trophies, one' composed of Turkish 
arms and armor, another of those of the middle ages, a third 
of swords, pistols, and various arms of the day. 

Lydia looked on all these things, but her eyes ever and 
anon returned to the lovely picture in the oval frame. Mr. 
Addison quietly observed the fact with the greatest pleasure 
and delight. Lydia would have given thousands, had she pos- 
sessed them, to know if there had ever been an original to the 
painting ; , and if so, who and what she was : whether Mr. 
Addison was acquainted with her, and whether — but there she 
stopped, lacking courage to frame the question even to herself. 

Dr. Freeman was busily engaged in looking at various 
relics and antiquities which Mr. Addison had brought home 
from his travels, and which were contained in the drawers 
of an immense Indian cabinet. 

“I could look at these till midnight,” he said, “but it 
won’t do to keep you, sir, and my Lyddie so long. Gad, a 
mons'us handsome creature,” he added, looking at the picture 
in the oval frame. 

“ Faith ! doctor, she was,” said his entertainer ; “ and used 
me like a dog, ’pon honor. She was nearly causing my 
death ; and as I was lying but half alive, run through and 
through, she marfies my rival ! Gome ! we will go forth into 
the shrubberies ; and if you’ve a mind to hear it, I’ll tell you 
the whole affair.” 

“ I’m your humble listener, sir. Gad, she is beautiful ! 


LYDIA’S DOUBT SOLVED. 


131 


But how can you favor so faithless a lady by having her 
always before your eyes ?” 

“ I know- better now,” replied Mr. Addison, smiling ; and 
going up to the picture he turned it with its face to the wall ; 
“ There, Madame la Marquise; for the time to come that 
will be your position !” The Doctor laughed, and Lydia felt 
a great weight removed from her heart by the mere turning 
of a picture with its face to the wall. 

The quadrangle, which was to be traversed in order to reach 
the shrubbery, was laid out as a Dutch garden, with trim 
borders and many statues representing heathen gods and god- 
desses. Along the blank side of the square ran a stone bal- 
ustrade, on which a couple of peacocks were perched, shining 
in the rich red evening sunlight and screaming with their 
melancholy, discordant, and yet pleasing cry. Beyond the 
balustrades the ground dipped into a valley, at the bottom 
of which ran a clear, murmuring trout-stream ; beyond this 
arose a hill higher than the other, and covered wdth thick 
wood. The descent beyond the garden was cut into three 
terraces communicating by stone steps and ornamented by 
dipt yew-trees, vases, and statues ; from the last terrace a 
stone bridge was thrown over the stream, and a winding path 
led to the entrance of the wood. 

As Mr. Addison led Lydia over the bridge they stopt an 
instant to look into the cool fresh stream, and to observe the 
trout quietly swimming about with an occasional fan of the 
tail, while the summer insects skimmed along the surface of 
the water, or danced about in the glowing rays of the sun. 

“Fine fellows,” cried the Doctor, eying the fish — “very 
fine fellows, upon my veracity !” 

“ You must do me the favor to give me your opinion of 
them, sir, at your breakfast to-morrow ; at which some of 
them shall not fail to appear,” said Mr. Addison, bowing. 

They reached the wood, in which paths were cut with the 


13 ^ 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


greatest taste and discrimination, and where the birds were 
loudly singing their evening songs. On gaining the top of 
the hill, they rested on a rustic seat beneath an aged oak, 
wide-spreading, and thickly leaved. From this spot a view 
of the whole surrounding country was obtained, the trees 
having been cut away with that intention. Lydia had never 
felt so happy, the Doctor had never been in better spirits ; 
Mr. Addison was very polite, very smiling, and extremely 
brilliant and entertaining. 

They gazed on the view stretching far away beneath them, 
as they seated themselves under the oak-tree. 

“ Oh ! there is the Vicarage, my dear papa,” cried Lydia, 
pointing it out with her fan. 

“You see I have my eyes upon you,” said Mr. Addison 
laughing. Little Lydia laughed too, but a blush accom- 
panied her laugh. 

He then, at the Doctor’s request, recounted the story of 
the faithless Marquise, and how he had engaged a first-rate 
artist to follow her to all public places, in order to paint the 
portrait they had seen in his room ; and which was a most 
valuable painting, and a perfect likeness. Lydia was very 
much interested in the recital, and expressed her surprise at 
the perfidy of the beautiful French lady. 

“ I think she deserves to have her face turned to the wall,” 
she said, gently fanning herself ; “ but it is a great pity . she 
is so handsome, and has such an air. — Do forgive her, Mr. 
Addison, and turn the picture back again !” 

“ Your wishes are a law to me,” he added, gallantly bow- 
ing, with his hand on his breast. 

“You have so interested and entertained us, sir,” said the 
Vicar, “ that if we can ask the favor without indiscretion, I 
am sure my Lydia will join me in the request that we may 
hear any other passages of your life which you may be so 
indulgent as to favor us with.” 


MR. ADDISON’S LOVE-STORIES. 


133 


“ Oh ! yes,” said Lydia, softly. 

Mr. Addison sighed, and then laughingly said; “ I am sure 
you take me for a free and independent bachelor. Faith ! I 
must make my confession and let you know I am an old mar- 
ried man : married before Mistress Lydia Freeman was born.” 

“ Ods so !” replied the Vicar, opening his eyes. Lydia’s 
fan had fallen to the ground, and her color had fled. Mr. 
Addison picked up the fan, and observing the pallor without 
appearing to do so, he said to himself — ^‘c’est bon” — cleared 
his throat — prepared his listeners for a touching story, and re- 
counted that of his wedding with poor Charlotte Paget. 

“ I never really loved but twice,” he said in conclusion ; 
“you are in possession of the histories of both my loves : am 
I not an unfortunate fellow ?” 

Lydia had listened with the same attention she used to 
bring to the Vicar’s recitals of “ the Babes in the Wood,” 
and “little Bed Biding Hood,” when she was a little child; 
and at the termination she was silently weeping, with her 
handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. Addison looked at her with 
an air of triumph and pleasure, while her tender old father 
drew her toward hmi and said, as he kissed her : 

“ Never mind, dear pussy, it happened when you were a 
little thing : it’s all over now, and our good friend Mr. Addi- 
son is quite happy again ; and will ever remain so, I hope.” 

“ I am more than happy,” he replied : “ three is the charm, 
so old housewives tell us, therefore I must hope my third love 
will be so happy as to make me amends for my past mis- 
chances.” 

“ What ! venture again, my good sir ? You’re a bold 
man!” 

“ I’m an old soldier, doctor,” replied Mr. Addison, laughing, 
and they began their return home. 

Lydia did not feel so happy as she had done half an hour 
before : she suddenly recollected Jack — honest Jack Warren 


134 


THE SCHOOL EOR FATHERS. 


— a pang shot through her heart — she cast down her eyes — 
the voice she heard in her dream sounded in her ears : she 
heard her father’s laugh, hut could have given no account of 
what had passed since they left the old oak, had she been re- 
quired so to do. 

The Vicar became more and more en train, Mr. Addison 
fell in with his humor, and as he conducted Lydia, secretly 
surveyed her, and inwardly joyed at her silence and abstract- 
ed air. He had never heard of such a person as young 
Squire Warren. 

On reaching the upper terrace they remained awhile to 
taste the fresh evening breeze, survey the blood-red sunset, 
listen to the distant sheep-bells in the park, and observe the 
cawing rooks going through their curious evening evolutions. 

Lydia thought it “very pretty,” and sighed. Mr. Addison 
wished the good old fat Vicar safe in his Vicarage, and him- 
self en tete-a-tete with his daughter. The innocent old eccle- 
siastic quoted the classics, and made some beautiful and 
moral observations drawn from his own righteous heart. 

On regaining the house they proceeded to the dining-room, 
which, was well lighted by wax-lights in ancient silver can- 
delabra of foreign design and execution : the windows remain- 
ed open to admit the fanning breeze. The supper was served 
on plate of curious form, and Sevres china delicate and fragile. 
A sweet perfume of flo\vers pervaded the apartment. The 
supper was cold, and followed by splendid fruits and foreign 
preserves. There was champagne, too, in long Flemish 
glasses. The Vicar did ample justice to it; so fresh and 
vivifying after the heat and dryness of the day. Lydia had 
never met wdth^it before. Mr. Addison informed her of its 
treacherous deluding properties : unlike the chivalry of the 
present day, w^ho think it such great fun'^ to. make the 
young ladies frisky with champagne, and then boast of their 
prowess. 


THE CLOSE OF THE DAY. 


135 


The time for parting came. Mr. Addison had left the 
room, and returned in his riding-dress, with his hat under his 
arm. The Vicar was asleep in a large soft satin chair ; 
there he gently snored while Lydia looked from the window, 
over the garden, at the silent lightning playing beyond the 
wood. Her pleasure W'as gone, or at least sadly diminished. 
The form, the clumsy form of Jack, stood between her arid 
Mr. Addison ! Did she feel angry with Jack ? No ! Lydia 
never was angry ; but she sighed, and felt she loved Jack 
precisely the same as she had always done, without the least 
shade of alteration : and yet she could not think of Jack 
without shivering, and he and Mr. Addison were perpetually 
together in her mind. 

As Mr. Addison entered the room he saw at once the 
Doctor sleeping, and Lydia looking out at the lightning. He 
drew near her softly (he could walk as lightly and silently as 
a cat, when he chose), and stopt about three paces from her, 
w’ith the light full on his face. The doctor with a long- 
drawn snore awoke ; Lydia turned round and saw Mr. Addi- 
son’s eyes gleaming on her : he purposely designed that she 
should do so. 

“ Come, my child,” said the Vicar, slowly rising, “we must 
ride home by the light of the stars ; and a most pleasant time 
we have passed, sir, owing to your urbanity and kindness !” 

“ Since it is so,” returned his host, “ I hope you will confer 
on me the favor of repeating your visit.” 

Lydia could say nothing. Mr. Addison helped her to 
spring on Phoebe, Chloe danced around, and Mr. Addison’s 
horse was led up pawing and foaiiiing to the terrace. He 
rested his hand on it and leapt on its back without touching 
the stirrup ; then reining it in, made it walk quietly beside 
Phoebe, so that the rider was precisely between the Doctor 
and Lydia. 

The champagne, fatigue, and subsequent doze had some- 


136 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


what stilled the Vicar ; Lydia spoke softly now and then ; 
Mr. Addison furnished the conversation for all. The evening 
was soothing and still, the tramp of the horses’ feet sharp 
and distinct, the cricket cheerfully singing, the distant watch- 
dogs barking as though in answer to each other. 

As Mr. Addison talked to her, Lydia once again forgot 
Jack in the pleasure of listening to him, and the ride home 
appeared much shorter than the ride to “ the great old house 
it appeared too short ; and when Lydia heard Mr. Addison 
galljp off, they seemed to her scarcely to have left Abbot’s 
Manor. He galloped off with an air of triumph and a 
smiling countenance : with the mien of a man certain of suc- 
cess. He sang too as he pranced along, and put his horse 
through all sorts of paces*. The fact was, that Mr. Addi- 
son, with his natural shrewdness added to his knowledge of 
the world and of the fair sex, had a better insight into Lydia’s 
heart than Lydia had herself. He perceived the instant it 
was touched, and rejoiced accordingly ; for Lydia was, as he 
told himself, the ^^soft moonlight'^ he needed to make him 
completely happy. She was so young, so fresh, so innocent, 
so different to the women he had been accustomed to and 
grown tired of that a passion for her did more towar^ the 
curing the blase state of his feelings than traveling, philoso- 
phy, or any remedy he had hitherto adopted. 

“ Gad!” he said, “ it makes me gay and boyish again !” 

He reached home, took a bottle of champagne in a huge 
silver goblet to Lydia’s health, and so retired to bed to dream 
of her, as happy as a king ; having only to speak to be 
accepted. 

As for poor little Lydia, no sooner had he quitted her, than 
Jack ngain arose in her imagination. In the parlor was 
Mistress Freeman, busily knitting, and on the table beside her 
the little oval painting sent by Mr. Addison to greet her on 
her return. 


JACK’S LETTER TO LYDIA. 


137 


“ This is for you, Lyddie, my dear ! How pretty it is : but 
bless me ! poor little dears, they must be very cold, with no- 
thing to wear but blue ribbons and a thin scarf. Poor dear 
Mr. Brown was sitting with me when Mr. Addison sent it. It 
seemed quite to upset him : he grew scarlet, and went away, 
poor man !’^ 

“Brown has# no taste for the classics,” said the Vicar. 
“ That’s the prettiest little subject I ever clapped eyes on. I 
say, pussy I what would worthy Jack say ?- You’ll have the 
lad jealous, gad you will ; so take care !’^ 

“ He knows me too well,” faltered poor Lydia, feeling 
inclined to cry ; and, lighting her candle, she asked permission 
to go to bed, she so tired T Oh, Lydia, you were not 
tired. 

Lydia did not sleep. Mr. Addison’s stories of his life ; the 
horrid death of poor Charlotte — the painting of St. Sebastian 
— the “ great old house'' — the portrait of the Marquise — the 
large wide terraces — Mr. Addison himself, so handsome in his 
black velvet dress — and eke Jack Warren, her affianced lover, 
in his Lincoln-green, not so handsome as Mr. Addison; all 
these things occupied her mind so strongly that sleep she could 
not. Twelve o’clock pealed forth from the old square tower — 
one o’clock — two — three — Lydia heard them all — and four. 
The birds were twittering, the silent day-break and rising 
sun succeeding the summer night. Lydia could see the oval 
painting hanging on the wall. With day came sleep, and 
dreams from all her previous thoughts. 

Next day brought a letter from Jack, announcing, with the 
utmost glee, that Dr. Spark had “given him up” — that he 
was enchanted to get rid of “so bookish a man,”^ — that Sir 
Thomas was furious — that he, hoped his father would let him 
go home, as Dr. Spark had said '\in so many words'' X\idX he 
would never be fitted for Parliament, and “the old French- 
man” in town had said the same, thing — that Sir Thomas still 


138 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


insisted on making a coxcomb and a fine gentleman of him — 
that he’d find it would not do, it wasn’t in him — that he was 
sure his “ little Lydia” did not care for fine learned fops, and 
would love him better as plain honest Jack Warren with his 
heart in his hand — that he meant to do all he could to set 
himself free and hasten their marriage — his father, indeed, 
talked of a match in town for him, a rich and. handsome lady 
— that he had stood a good deal out of respect to his father, 
but he wouldn’t stand that; hang him! if he did, indeed : 
— that nothing on earth should ever force him to forget Lydia. - 
And so, with his respects to the Vicar and Mistress Freeman, 
the worthy fellow concluded. 

Lydia read and re-read thedetter. 

“ Poor Jack,” she sighed. She wished he could love the 
young lady in town ; and then she felt ungrateful toward him, 
and reproached herself with her wishes. Then Mr. Addison 
arrived with his good looks, and his deep voice, and charming 
manners — and then she quite forgot “ poor Jack” — and when 
Mr. Addison departed, 'with him departed little Lydia’s 
serenity ; for Jack’s gigantic form re-appeared in her mind, 
and she read his letter again and put it among its fellows, 
and sighed, and looked at Mr. Addison’s gift — and hoped, 
before she knew what she was hoping, that Sir Thomas would 
detain Jack — and then she thought town training would do 
him good, he was “so very rough'^ — and then she put off 
answering his letter — and put it ofL^and put it off — till poor 
Jack wrote to inquire if any thing was the matter, and why 
she did not write to him ? 

It was quite true that Dr. Spark, a most erudite and clever 
eccentricity, thoroughly disgusted with his pupil’s obtuse 
brains, and sheer incapacity for gaining knowledge, sought out 
Sir Thomas, and addressed him as follows : 

“ Sir, you’ll never make any thing of that boy of yours — 
he’s a paper-skull, sir — a paper-skull — paper — yes — paper. 


DR. SPARK’S SPEECH. 


139 


Send him back to his hounds, sir — send him back — yes — send 
him back. I’d sooner leach a hog, sir — -a hog — more capacity 
in a hog, sir — more capacity — infinitely more! The young 
fellow’s torpid, sir — torpid — quite torpid — ^stupid, sir^ — stupid. 
It’s an insult to give one such a pupil, sir. Don’t be alarmed, 
sir, I’m not a fighting man, sir — no — not a fighting man, sir. 
As for Parliament, sir — Parliament — might as well send out 
a bear as embassador, sir — a bruin, sir. Embassador, sir ! — 
quite unfit for the senate, sir — yes — senate. Never met so 
sluggish a brain, sir — never : — no notions, sir, beyond the 
chase, sir — none — except a tankard, sir — beer, sir : — sottish — 
very sottish. Lost time — lost time — never make any thing 
of him, sir — never — as long as the world lasts, sir — never — as 
sure as my name’s Spark, sir — Spark. Fine man, sir — very 
— very much so, sir — very much so indeed, sir — no fire — no 
life, sir — you’ll live to find I speak truth, sir — truth. Give 
it up, my good sir — give it up — send him to his dogs, sir — his 
tankard, sir — his choice country spirits, sir — marry him, sir — 
save him from ruin, sir. I wash my hands of him, sir — yes, 
sir — leave this the day after to-morrow, sir — early coach, sir 
— humble servant, sir — boy’s a numskull, sir 1” 

The Baronet chafed and fumed. The speech of the tutor 
tallied too well with his own unbiased judgment : but his 
will, his darling scheme, stood out against his judgment ; and 
he was determined, if obliged to give up his idea of making a 
statesman of Jack, he would still try his efforts at breaking 
him in for a fine gentleman. 

“ Was ever man more cursed than I ?” he said to himself. 
“ I can not away with the boy — given up by both tutors ! — I 
did hope more from Dr. Spark ! That a boy of mine should 
be such a consummate lout 1 The more I dress him the worse 
he looks — the more pains I take with him the more shy and 
awkward he grows. And here he is left on my hands. He’ll 
be gallanting with the dairy-maid for want of something to 


140 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


do. Gad, I wish he’d form a liaison with some woman of 
fashion ! ’Twould be the making of him — but no ! — Lydia, 
and Lydia, and Lydia — and blushing and looking like a clown 
— confound the fellow ! I’ll try him next season, do all I can 
for him — insist on his giving up that country wench — make 
up a match for him — set him love-making — take him every 
where — give him a spirit — zounds, that I will — or if I fail 
‘ strike me moraV I’ll marry, and cut him off with a shilling ! 
— the foolish bumpkin !” 

Dr. Spark left by the early coach, Muth few clothes, but 
many books : rare works, choice editions, his cherished treas- 
ures. Sir Thomas left alone with Jack, himself attempted 
to illuminate his brains. During the hot summer mornings 
Jack, en robe de chamhre^ sat in the fine old library reading 
to his father, and writing from his dictation. He read and 
wrote mechanically : all the works on history, philosophy, and 
human nature, reached no farther than his eyes and tongue. 
Jack’s mind was quite left in statu quo ; his thoughts ram- 
bled to far other subjects : horses, dogs, foxes, runs, fences, 
leaps, ale, beef) venison, bread and cheese, shooting, fishing, 
coursing, a pipe of tobacco, Lydia, and old Squire Warren. 
Such were the materials of Jack’s divers thoughts, put into 
different forms, like a Chinese puzzle : the same squares with 
a variation in pattern. 

Sir Thomas bethought him of making his son keep a com- 
mon-place book. What insanity ! Jack was a long time 
before he could understand the object in view. 

“ You are to write dowm,” said his father, “ your opinion 
of the divers works you read, and to make extracts from 
them.” 

“ What’s extracts ?” asked Jack. 

“ To copy out of them into your book any thing that you 
think may be of use to you, in order that you may not forget 
it. You have this morning been reading the reign of Will- 


JACK’S COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 141 

iam Rufus, and a work on manners and politeness done into 
English from the Italian. Now sit down, take up your 
pen, and enter your thoughts on your common-place book. 
Take your time ; and for Heaven’s sake do endeavor to show 
some interest in what you are about, and try to be more like 
other young fellows of your own age. When you have done, 
we’ll go into the shade of the avenue and fence a little.” 

Jack sat down drowsy and dull, spread open his common- 
place book and the reign of William Rufus, looked at the 
ceiling and out of the window, and at the end of a quarter of 
an hour’s rumination wrote as follows : 

“ WILLIAM RUFUS. 

“ William Rufus had red hair. He was a king of England. 
He liked fox-hunting and stag-hunting. It don’t say how 
many packs he had, nqr how many horses. I suppose a good 
many, because he was a king. It don’t say any thing of har- 
riers nor beagles; perhaps he was above them, because he 
was a king. I should like well enough to have been in his 
shoes, except at last. Out stag-hunting one of the company 
shot him with an arrow he meant for the stag, but somehow 
it went wrong ; smack into the king and killed him. I won- 
der why they had arrows out hunting. If they must have 
arms, I think they would have found their guns more handy, 
but I’d rather have nothing for my part. Give me a good 
hunter, and devil take the hindmost.” 

“Please, sir,” said Jack, in a thick schoolboy voice, “ IVe 
done William What’s-his-name !” , 

“ Heavens, you young ruffian, you’ll destroy me. Have I 
not told you hundreds of times how detestable it is not to give 
every person his proper name ? Now then go on to the other 
work, and then I’ll see how you succeed.” 

Jack found this harder work than the last, but after push- 


142 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


ing back his nightcap and rubbing his smoothly shorn pate, 
and furtively gaping a great deal, he brought forth the fol- 
lowing remarks : 

^‘MANNERS AND POLITENESS. 

I don’t like this book, and so I don’t w'ant to copy any 
thing out of it. It has got a great many pictures of fops and 
coxcombs bowing and scraping, and turning out their toes, 
and drawing in their backs. I have no relish for them. I 
don’t remember much what the book says. I like William 
Rufus best.” 

Sir Thomas having left the room. Jack looked at his watch, 
gaped with good-will as wide as his jaws would extend, stretch- 
ed out his legs and arms like a tiger, and tilting back his chair, 
made amends for two hours’ constraint and misery. 

Sir Thomas returned, gently opening the door, as was his 
custom. Before him, he beheld Jack taking his ease, and 
stood aghast at his mighty stretch, and the wild-beast-like 
noise of his gape. “Oaf!” he faintly exclaimed. Jack heard 
him not. Jack’s ponderous, muscular back was too much for 
the back of the chair. With a crack, it separated from the 
seat. Over went Jack, his toes in the air, his capless head 
on the floor at his enraged parent’s feet, his eyes looking up 
imploringly at him, his arms spread abroad — and there he lay. 

“ When in the name of all the furies, sir, are you going to 
leave off your pot-house habits ? — Who ever saw a gentleman 
stretching and yawning like a beast of prey ? You know it 
is WTong, or you would not wait to begin your ignoble per- 
formances till I had left the room. Breaking the back off a 
chair, and falling over like a drunken fellow ! Why do you 
lie there, sir, staring at me like a booby ? Gracious heavens ! 
get up, or I shall do you a mischief” 

Jack arose, replaced his cap, and carried his literary toils 


DOWNFALI. OF A FATHER’S HOPES. 


143 


to Sir Thomas. He read them — pale and trembling with 
suppressed ^rage and vexation. He read them three times 
over, put the book on the table, and said : 

“ Is it possible that a human being of your age can write 
such stuff? Is that all you have gleaned from your morn- 
ing’s study ? Are those the only remarks you have to make ?” 

Jack thought for a few minutes, and replied : 

“ That’s all, sir !” 

His father, taking a pinch of snuff, eyed him superciliously. 

“ Go and fetch the foils, and wait for me in the avenue !” 

Jack departed ; Sir Thomas read his performances over 
again. 

“ What writing !” he exclaimed. “ What ideas ! How 
puerile — how utterly devoid of any thing brilliant ! Gad ! I 
fear the Abbe and Dr. Spark were right ! One-and-twenty 
next February ; and this is the performance of a child of 
twelve years old ! He’s fit for nothing but to break his neck 
out hunting: but that he’ll never do ! Well! I suppose I 
must give up all notion of seeing him a statesman ! I can 
get him into Parliament : that will look well : and as for 
speaking, he won’t attempt it. Then I must see to getting 
him well married to Lady Betty, or Lady Flora, or some 
modish woman or other. That will give him a little more 
weight in the world : a fine woman might put the fellow on 
his mettle, and make something of him. I’ll try him this 
winter — make love for him myself — the lout has no idea of 
it : he’d be chucking the lady under the chin, or some such 
enormity, if I gave him his head.” 

The persevering old Baronet thus continued to row against 
wind and tide, in the vain hope that by some means he should 
somehow make something of Jack ; while every one but him- 
self saw plainly enough that he might just as w^ell hope to 
discover the “philosopher’s stone,” or turn black to white. 
He had neglected his son in his boyhood, when he might 


144 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


have been sowing the seeds which might have produced 
something near akin to what he wished him to he ; he now 
reaped the fruit of his desertion and negligence : still per- 
severing in cruelly keeping him from all he loved, and 
debarring him from the only pursuits he was capable of en- 
gaging in. And why ? Because he, Sir Thomas Warren, 
in his old age, had taken it into his head to think of his heir, 
and in his selfish vanity imagined that the successor to all his 
imaginary superiority and importance must be a person of 
first-rate attainments ! Jack decidedly was far, very far^ 
from being such an one ; but Jack was his only son and his 
heir, and JsLck must be moulded to his ideas. Sir Thomas’s 
conscience was mute so far; the voice of vanity alone was 
heard ; his eyes were blinded ; divers defeats might half un- 
close them for an instant, but vanity, aided by selfishness, 
closed them again as fast as ever. 

As for poor Jack, he did not think very profoundly. He 
complied, as well as he was able, with his father’s wishes ; 
doing so, if I may be allowed the term, with sidky good- 
nature. He looked forward to being of age as to a grand 
epoch, when he should be able to “ speak his mind'" and 
marry his darling “ Lyddie hunt with his old uncle aiid 
the rest of^em^^ and turn his back on the great metropolis 
for ever. 

He little knew the changes that were going on in his 
Lydia’s mind; neither could he have imagined them. He 
felt that nothing could ever make him care for any one but 
her ; he clung to her remembrance as a faithful mastiff would 
to that of an absent master. If he had been told that she 
could think of any one but faithful Jack Warren, he would 
not have believed it. If he had been in her company to- 
gether with that of Mr. Addison, he would, with his unsus- 
picious mind, have had no idea of their feelings ; he did 
not know that such a thing as faithlessness was to be found, 


FEELINGS OF JACK ANP LYDIA. 145 

out of a pathetic ballad twenty verses long : in short, he bore 
the present, with a species of dutiful enduring philosophy, 
which was natural to him ; much as a young recruit from 
rural districts would stand in square, en hut to the enemy, 
from morn to eve, because he teas there, without thinking it 
possible things might be otherwise : and so Jack remained 
where he was, patiently looking to the future. 

Time rolled on, the green summer gave place to the rich 
autumn. Little Lydia had ceased thinking ; and led away 
by the softness of her character, gave herself up to the pleas- 
ure of loving and being loved by Mr. Addison, without look- 
ing to the future. She was so quiet, and he made so little 
outward show of his feelings, that the good old Vicar per- 
ceived not the state of affairs ; well pleased with his new 
friend’s society, his anecdotes, quotations, and the deference 
with w^hich he listened to all the Doctor said. As for Mrs. 
Freeman, as Mr. Addison always appeared gay and cheer- 
ful she did not bestow much thought upon him or his doings ; 
and thus the fire smouldered, unseen by the Vicar and his 
lady. 

Lydia continued to receive Jack’s missives and to answer 
them ; but she now read them over but once ; said “ poor 
Jack,” when she had so done, instead of “dear Jack,” as 
heretofore, and consigned them at once to their resting-place 
in the little sweet-smelling cabinet. Old Squire Warren 
was wont to repair to the Vicarage to dinner every Sunday, 
to dine, talk of Jack, read the weekly letter he received from 
him to “ his pretty little niece,” as he called Lydia, and de- 
nounce Sir Thomas’s conduct with all his heart. This had 
once been pleasing to Lydia ; now the presence of the Squire 
made her* pensive, and she dreaded his arrival after church. 
He thought he could not please or console her better than by 
talking of Jack and their intended marriage, and bidding her 
cheer up and keep up her spirits, as the time was rapidly 

G 


146 


THE SCHOOL FOK FATHERS. 


passing, and Jack would be back and her happy husband 
“ before she knew where she was.” 

“ Thank Heaven !” he would say, “ the boy’s true to him- 
self; not led away by the dazzle and fooleries Tom wants 
him to take to. He’s my own boy : a lad after my own 
heart ; and they’ll never spoil him for me — never. He sends 
me such nice gifts, too : all sorts of bits and spurs ; and such 
whips ! Dear grateful fellow, how I long to see him again 
with his good-natured face ; and to hear his manly voice and 
hearty laugh! Then for a good ^run!' I tell you what, 
my pretty little niece, take honest Squire Warren’s word for 
it, he’ll make you the best of husbands, and spoil you as 
he would a puppy. There’s many a young Miss will be 
envying you. I’ll I)e bound. What a wedding we’ll have, 
eh! Doctor. I mean to open the ball with the bride; and 
mix the punch strong and stilF. We’ll have it all at Den- 
ham Park ; and I’ll give the young couple the run of the 
house, so they’ll leave me my little den. You needn’t blush 
and look down, Missie,” he added, pinching Lydia’s soft 
cheek, we’ll have a merry time of it, and be as happy as so 
many kings— that we will, once we get Jack among us 
again !” 

It may be imagined the effect such little sallies as these 
produced on poor little Lydia. But Monday came, and with 
it Mr. Addison ; for by degrees his visits, from once a week 
grew to twice a week, from twice to thrice, from thrice a 
week they became daily ; Sunday being the only day on 
which he appeared not. 

Mr. Addison was fully bent on making Lydia his wife. 
He Went over to see his mother, and talk over his plans ; all 
of which met with her entire approbation. He hurried on 
the works at Abbot’s Manor, resolving that as soon as the 
house was ready to receive Lydia, he would make his offer to 
her, and enjoy the happiness he felt sure it would give her; 


A SUNNY AUTUMN BAY. 


147 


for Mr. Addison knew well enough exactly what Lydia felt 
for him, and much had he amused himself in watching her, 
and in noting the simplicity with which her feelings toward 
him betrayed themselves. In short, he was himself very 
much in love with Lydia, and hurried every one so much at 
Abbot’s Manor they could not imagine what had come over 
master” he was usually so calm and patient. 

Lydia was sitting alone in the parlor one splendid afternoon 
in September, thinking of Mr. Addison, of course ; the Vicar 
was in his study, taking an afternoon nap, with an unfinish- 
ed sermon on the table before him ; Mistress Freeman was 
superintending the confectioning of preserves, on which she 
much prided herself; Phoebe was in the paddock, and Chloe 
lying asleep on the lawn in the rich sunshine. 

One of the parlor windows at the far end of the room 
opened to the ground, and looked out at the side of the house 
on a small lawn and flower-borders. Honeysuckle twined 
around the porch, and shed its sweet perfume into the apart- 
ment. The brisk autumn breeze was sighing in the trees ; 
the distant report of sportsmen’s guns heard from time to 
time ; floods of golden sunshine poured on plains, on hill and 
dale, warming without enervating ; some of the bright rays 
lighted up the polished oak floor of the parlor through the 
open window. — Lydia was feeding her httle bird, which she 
had let down, cage and all, from the ceiling, where it hung, 
according to the mode of the day. The pretty little fellow, in 
his yellow jacket, knew her well, was pleased to be let out ; 
if she went to the further end of the room would fly after Ijpr 
and perch on her shoulder ; he would take seeds from her 
mouth, ride about on her finger : in short, little Philander 
was the most polished, and the most charming of birds. 

He was perched on her shoulder, and she, turning her head, 
gave him seeds and little bits of sugar from her lips ; he, flut- 
tering his wings, gently took them from her, turned his little 


148 


THE SCHOOL EOU FATHERS. 


yellow pate about, looking at her with his beautiful shining 
eyes, began a little song, and broke off to take another seed. 
Her back was turned toward the window — she did not see a 
sharp shadow, black and distinct, cast on the oak floor — she 
did not see the man who cast it standing looking at her, with 
gleaming eyes and smiling lips — she did not hear a light tread 
on tip-toe, or the subdued jingle of a spur, for little Philander 
was loudly singing ; she gave him another seed ; she felt an 
arm around her ; she felt soft perfumed hair touch her cheek ; 
and she heard the voice she once heard in her dream say in 
her ear : 

“ What a happy little rogue that is !” 

Lydia started, and uttered a faint cry, on seeing Mr. Addi- 
son. 

“ Don’t be frightened, my Lydia he said taking her 
hand and kissing it, as he removed his arm from her waist : 
“ put that little impertinent rascal into his cage, or he’ll fly 
at me when he hears what I am going to say to you. Now 
sit down, and don’t tremble so. One would think I was an 
ogre, come to devour you, instead of your fond and faithful 
lover !” 

Lydia could not speak. She knew what Mr. Addison was 
going to say to her, and felt no power to stop him. She 
leant her head on her hand, her elbow on the arm of her 
chair, not daring to look at him, scarcely able to breathe. He 
drew his chair close beside hers, took her little hand in one 
of his, and placed a wedding-ring on her fourth finger before 
s]^ knew what he was doing. 

“ There,” he said triumphantly, “ now, Lydia, lovely little 
Lydia, you are mine. Let any one dare remove that ring, 
or say the contrary, and I’ll run him through. The Vicar 
must end what I have began, my Lydia, and we will be 
happy together for life. I have long loved you, and I know 
you love me. Dear little creature, say ‘yes,’ and I’ll not 


THE DECLARATION. 


149 


torment you any longer !” And herewith he again kissed 
her hand. But he felt it grow cold and tremble violently ; 
he looked up at Lydia, and beheld her deadly pale. This 
was not quite the reception he had pictured to himself. Lydia 
did not see him ; she hardly heard him : Jack was before 
her eyes ; she remembered that she was promised to the play- 
fellow of her childhood. 

“ What is the matter, my angel ?” inquired Mr. Addison. 
“ Why are you so pale 1 — You love me, do you not ?” 

“ Oh ! yes !” replied poor little Lydia, faintly. 

“ And you will be my wife, then T’ 

“I can not,” murmured Lydia, hiding her eyes that she 
might not see Mr. Addison’s. He in his turn became pale. 

“ Why not ?” he asked. 

“ Because I’m — ” and poor Lydia’s tears began to fall. 

“ Why ? — tell me why !” he inquired rapidly, looking 
eagerly at her. 

I’m engaged to be married !” replied Lydia, scarcely 
audible, and with many tears. 

“ Hell and furies !” cried Mr. Addison, starting up, crimson 
and trembling. 

There tvas a dead silence, only interrupted by Philander 
hopping about on his perches. 

“ Who to ?” at length asked Mr. Addison, in a suppressed 
tone of voice. 

“ To Squire Warren’s nephew !” replied Lydia. 

Mr. Addison walked up and down the room with jingling 
spurs and impatient tread, his face flushed and his hands 
behind him. He stopped, and leant on the back of Lydia’s 
chair. 

“Is there no means,” he said, “ of breaking off your en- 
gagement ?” 

“ No,” said Lydia, and taking a letter from her pocket, 
held it out to Mr. Addison. 


150 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


He sat down by her, opened it, and read as follows : 

“ My dear Lydia — Cheer up I — I think my father is get- 
ting tired of me, though he says he shall set about getting 
me into Parliament as soon as we get up to London ; but 
Parliament nor any thing else shan’t prevent our marriage. 

“ Lord Langley was here for three days, and he got my 
father to let me off those dull stupid tasks, and took me out 
shooting. I wish I could send you some of the fine birds we 
brought down. He’s a good shot, but I’m the best. My 
father says he shall marry me to a fine woman, but Pve no 
fancy for an airified modish wife ! I say nothing, but don’t 
be afraid, I won’t have her ; nothing can ever make me give 
up my little Lydia, but death. We are to go to London soon 
for my dancing, and fencing, and fine manners — a plague on 
them ! As for my marriage, my father may do and say as 
he thinks fit, but I’ll tell the lady to her face fiatly and hon- 
estly that 1 love you, and won’t have any thing to say to 
her ; or PH get Lord Langley to do it, for he’s very much 
my friend in spite of his foppery. The long and short of the 
matter is, I love you, and no man on earth or woman either 
shall ever make me give you up — so keep a good heart, my 
dear Lydia. Give my respects to Dr. Freeman and Mistress 
Freeman. I hope Phoebe, and Chloe, and your little bird 
are quite well. 

“ I am, my dearest Lydia, your faithful lover, 

“Jack.” 

Mr. Addison threw Jack’s love-letter on the floor, and 
stamping on it with the heel of his boot, resumed his walk 
up and down the room. 

For five minutes not a word was spoken. 

“ Lydia,” said Mr. Addison at length, going up to her and 
standing by her, “ you must marry this man ; and as it must 


THE LOVERS’ ADIEU. 


151 


be so, I will say nothing about him, except that he is in no 
way worthy of you. You will marry him and do your duty 
— but you love me. I will not make fine speeches about my 
own misery : your heart will tell you the sentiments of mme, 
—Adieu.” 

“ Take the ring,” said Lydia, bitterly weeping. 

“ No, keep it for my sake,” he said ; then kissed her fore- 
head, and rushed away from her. 

Philander sang merrily and hopped about his perch — Lydia 
fixed her eyes on the spot Mr. Addison had just left — a sharp 
ringing of hoofs at full speed struck her ear — gradually it died 
away — Mr. Addison was gone ! 

Lydia picked up the letter cut by the iron heel, and throw- 
ing herself into the chair Mr. Addison had left, cried as 
though her poor little heart was about to break. 

“ Pussy, come, and weTl have a stroll in the fields this fine 
afternoon. Your mamma can’t leave her preserves.” Thus 
spake the Vicar, opening the parlor-door and looking in. 

Pussy'^ returning no answer but stifled sobs, her father 
drew near to her, wdth consternation depicted on his face. 

“My child! what is iti What has gone WTong with 
you 1” 

“Oh! my dear papa, my dear papa!” cried Lydia, rising 
and throwing her arms round the Vicar’s neck, while she hid 
her face on his breast. 

“My dear, dear Lyddie, what is the matter? Tell your 
old father ! Are you ill or in pain, my darling? Do speak !” 

Lydia tried to do so, but could not. 

“ Come into the study ^ my Lyddie ; try and calm yourself. 
You frighten me. Pussy — you do, indeed.” 

Poor little Lydia suffered herself to be led into the Vicar’s 
study. The tender-hearted old man soothed her, fetched 
Melissa-water for her : taking great care that Mistress Free- 
man should not see him, or know what was going on. 


152 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHEB>S. 


Now, Pussy,” he said, when Lydia’s tears had ceased 
flowing, “ now try and tell me what has happened. Take 
your time, darling. Don’t flurry yourself!” 

“ Thank you, my dear papa,” replied Lydia, faintly ; and 
after a short pause, she added, Mr. Addison has been here.” 

Well !” interrupted the Vicar, sharply — that is, sharply 
for him. “ Has he vexed you ?” 

“ Oh ! no, papa,” said Lydia : and the poor little thing’s tears 
again began to flow. 

“ What then?” cried Dr. Freeman, taking his daughter’s 
hand in both his. “ You’ll make yourself quite ill, my Lyddie. 
Take heart, and say at once what it is. What has Mr. 
Addison done ? What did he say 

“Oh! papa, papa, he — ” she could not finish, but put 
forth her hand still decked with the wedding-ring. 

“ Ah !” cried the Vicar, starting. 

Lydia made a great efibrt, collected her strength, and said 
in a hurried voice : 

“ He put that on my finger, papa, and asked me to be his 
wife !” 

The Vicar rubbed the tip of his ear, sighed deeply, and 
said nothing. 

“ He galloped away, papa : he’s gone forever !” and Lydia’s 
tears once more began to fall. 

“ I’m a selfish old fool,” thought the Doctor. “ I’ve been 
encouraging the man here, never dreaming of any thing of 
this kind. But, my Lyddie being engaged to Jack, who 
would have thought it? A plague on Jack — I advised him 
not to engage himself. — Lyddie,” he said, aloud, “ did you 
tell him you are to marry Jack ?” 

“ Yes, papa.” 

“ What did he say ?” 

“ He was very angry, I think. I gave him that and he 
stamped on it,” said Lydia, giving Jack’s letter to her father. 


CONFESSIONS. 


153 


The Vicar saw the cut produced by the iron heel of Mr. 
Addison’s boot ; he read the letter through, again rubbed the 
tip of his ear, and said : 

I pity Mr. Addison, poor fellow, with all my heart : but 
do you love him. Pussy? He’s so much older than you are.” 

“ Oh ! yes, papa, I do ! And I love poor Jack just as I 
used to do ; but I never can marry him, papa — never !” 

“ I understand, my Lyddie. The truth is, you love Jack 
just as you would a brother, if you had one ; for he has been 
your playmate, and is as kind-hearted a fellow as ever stepped ; 
but as for Mr. Addison, you feel very differently toward him. 
I feel for you, dear Pussy, for I have been in the same plight 
myself pretty nearly. I married your mother, Lyddie, be- 
cause she loved me. At the time, I was nearly as miserable 
as you are now. I was very much in love with a young lady 
who loved me, but her parents would not hear of her marry- 
ing a and matched her with a decrepit old lord. 

Your mother had been my playmate, Lyddie, as Jack has 
been yours. I married her ; she never knew of my real love. 
I have been very happy ; and you, my dear child, make 
amends to me for all the rest !” 

Lydia embraced her father, and they talked very long over 
her sorrows. ' Dr. Freeman suggested that Jack might per- 
haps take a fancy for the lady his father would make choice 
of Poor Lydia caught at the idea for a moment, but her 
heart told her that Jack would be faithful to her in spite 
of every thing. 

“I wish I had never seen Mr. Addison, papa,” sighed 
Lydia, sadly. 

“ Never mind, darling ! When I lost my love I thought I 
should have died — but I’m fat and well-liking now. You’ll 
get over it in time, Lyddie. — Marry Jack and end by being 
quite yourself again !” 

“Oh ! my dear papa, I feel that if I marry Jack I shall 

G* 


154 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


die : I can’t have dear Mr. Addison, but really papa I can 
not marry poor Jack.” 

“ We won’t talk about him, my Lyddie ; we’ll hope he’ll 
make up his mind to obey his father, and marry the town 
belle.” 

“ I wish he would, papa ! Poor Mr. Addison, he has been 
so unhappy about his two other loves ; and he looked so 
happy when he came, and so altered when he went away, 
I’m afraid he’s going to be unhappy about me!” 

Lydia was right. Mr. Addison galloped some, ten or 
twelve miles — returned home — shut himself up in his room — 
in spite of philosophy kicked a chair to pieces — cut his 
knuckles by striking out against the marble chimney-piece — 
took no supper — walked up and down his room all night — 
and looked like a spectre when the pale dawn broke on him. 

Poor little Lydia cried herself to sleep, but dreamt, and 
started, and sighed in her slumbers. It was the first wretch- 
ed night she had ever passed: and how wretched was her 
waking ! 

Next day came : no Mr. Addison ! He was miserable 
enough, and passed the day on horseback ; trying, by tiring 
his body, to benumb his mind. Lydia’s was her first grief ; 
his was the overthrowing of what he had looked upon as 
certain happiness. 

Lydia’s days were blank and dreary ; and she clung with 
greater affection than ever to her father, while he did all in 
his power to comfort and enliven her. They were so much 
alike in all their thoughts and feelings, that he understood 
thoroughly every turn of her mind, and every sentiment of 
her heart. As for Mistress Freeman, she only made her 
worse by lamenting over her and calling her, “ my poor, dear 
daughter classing her in short with, “ poor dear Mr. 
Brown and all the other “ poor dears” she was in the 
habit of pitying. 


A DREAHY WINTER. 


155 


Mr. Addison sometimes repaired to the seat under the old 
oak, and with a good glass would watch Lydia as she strolled 
in the garden ; but as this pastime only made him worse, 
like a wise man he gave it up, and resolved to travel all 
through England and Scotland on horseback, to visit some 
of the places where he had been quartered in his soldier days, 
and to try if possible to forget Lydia as soon as he could. 
Moping and thinking about her he knew would do no good 
to either, and a great deal of harm to himself; so taking a 
good resolution he, one fine morning, mounted his horse, and, 
followed by his servant, left Abbot’s Manor: just three weeks 
after his hopes had received such a stunning blow. 

He was forced to pass the Vicarage. Lydia was in the 
garden with Chloe, while Mistress Freeman was preparing 
the breakfast. She heard a horse’s fast trot — she thought 
she knew the sound — looked up and beheld Mr. Addison fol- 
lowed by his groom. He checked his horse, raised his hat, 
replaced it, kissed his hand, put spurs to his steed, and gal- 
loped off like mad. Poor Lydia could only look at him with 
silent grief. She saw that he was going on a journey ; and 
he seemed more lost to her than ever! 

Winter came on cold and bleak, rain and wind, snow and 
frost, short dark days, Christmas and its gayeties — now so 
uninteresting and dull to Lydia, though she tried to be gay 
for her father’s sake. Letters from Jack, too, arrived with 
their usual punctuality ; Mr. Brown paid droning visits. 
Squire Warren came regularly every Sunday — but no Mr. 
Addison ! He continued his travels in spite of wind and 
weather — frost and snow ; his groom thought “ master''" in- 
sane, but “ master'"" found no consolation so great for the 
present : no remedy so effectual as wearing himself out with 
fatigue. He visited Charlotte’s grave, hoping to revive a 
bygone sorrow as a palliative to a recent one. He looked on 
the grave with interest, entered the old church, stood before 


156 


THE SCHOOL EOH EATHEHS. 


the altar where he had stood with Charlotte, philosophized 
over the past, sighed over the present, and rode, till, faint and 
weary, he was glad to dismount from the horse that had car- 
ried him the two last stages, sup on what fare a small inn 
could furnish, and fall asleep without feeling how hard the 
bed was on which he lay. 

The only incidents that occurred during the winter in the 
Vicar’s parish and the adjoining one, were the removal of 
the Rev. Roger Brown to a small vicarage in the gift of the 
Bishop of the diocese, and the arrival of Mr. Addison’s mother 
at Abbot’s Manor. “ Poor, dear Mr. Brown” left Lydia 
with an aching heart. We will finish his history at once. 
His mother went to live with him, and remained until her 
death. Roger never married. After ten years’ assiduous 
attention to the duties of his parish, he died calmly and con- 
tentedly ; regretted by all the worthy portion of his flock, 
unreviled by the reprobate, pitied by all. 

Meanwhile Jack had returned to his purgatory in town, 
where the old Stas’ awaited him : minus the Abbe Potelle, 
who could not be prevailed upon to resume his functions as 
tutor to “ ce bon M. JacT^ 

“ My dear child,” said Sir Thomas, I do hope you will 
now exert yourself, and do your best to help my endeavors 
for your welfare. Reflect with yourself what a brilliant 
existence is open to you, if you will but secure it ! It all 
depends on yourself — entirely on yourself Your fate is in 
your own hands ; either to become a finished gentleman, a 
man of the world, with all the advantages attending such a 
character, both for yourself and your heirs— or to fritter away 
your days in the country among dogs and horses, bringing up 
your children like a horde of young Cherokees. You will 
have a title, a vast fortune — a good person you naturally pos- 
sess, if you would but set it ofl* to the best advantage. Do,, 
my dear boy, try what you can do !” 


CHOICE OF A LIFE. 


157 


I will, sir, to please you ; but I shall never have any 
relish for Town life. Why isn’t a country gentleman living 
happily on his estate, and following his own bent, as good as 
a man of the world ? And what’s the use of being all one’s 
life long what one hates ?” 

Sir Thomas opened his eyes — for Jack had never addressed 
him in so long a speech, or spoken so plainly, before. 

“ Why, sir, it amounts to this,” he replied, fixing his cold 
gray eyes on his son, and tapping the arm of his chair with 
his wasted fingers, “ either to lead the life of a hog, wallow- 
ing in your own inclinations, good or bad ; or to polish your- 
self, learn self-restraint, know the world, and the thousand- 
and-one things that can only be learnt in the world : to cul- 
tivate both mind and body, to study character, to be 'homme 
universd^ — and not to tumble into bed drunk every night, 
after hallooing after a fox all day !” 

“Well, but sir,” persevered poor Jack, “I don’t want to 
polish myself and learn all those hard things ; I’m not made 
for it at all. I only do it because you tell me. I’d much 
rather lead the life of a hog, and go fox-hunting ; but I never 
get drunk every night ; only now and then, once and away 
— and then I can take my three bottles with the best of 
’em!” 

“ Don’t be flippant, sir, I desire,” said Sir Thomas, angrily. 
“ If you are so degraded in mind, so groveling, as not to wish 
these things for your own sake, I insist on your cultivating 
them for mine. I shall take you every where ; and I must 
further insist on your being more assiduous with the ladies : 
you never address them or look at them. I don’t know what 
you are made of ! At your age I was on the best terms with 
several of the finest women of the day. You talk to my Lady 
Langley just as though she were a great lout of a boy. Be- 
gin with her you are on friendly terms ; recommend your- 
self more particularly to her good graces by an assiduous 


158 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


manner mingled with l*espectful tenderness ; when you are 
at a loss consult me, and I will put you in the way. It will 
he an amusement for you, and do more toward polishing and 
softening you than any other thing in the world.” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Jack. 

“Well then, sir, in plain terms, make love to her ; that 
is, if you know how !” 

Jack grew crimson — frowned — and said firmly, “I’ve no 
fancy, sir, for betraying my good friend Lord Langley ; and 
my Lady Langley is too good to betray her husband.” 

“ Tut ! tut I tut I the boy’s a greater simpleton than I took 
him for ! I insist, sir, on your paying your court to some lady 
or other. You’ll never be a pretty fellow till you do !” 

“ I’d rather not be one. I’m engaged to my little Lyddie, 
and that’s enough. I will never deceive any woman, sir, as 
sure as my name’s Jack Warren. I don’t much mind danc- 
ing and dressing, and so on, to please you, sir; but I won’t 
be a rascal to please any man !” 

“ You are growing much too talkative, sir. You are to 
obey, and not to reason. I do not wish you to deceive any 
one, or to be a rascal, as you most impertinently insinuate 
that I do — for I take it, your flourishing oratory was meant 
at me !” 

“ No, sir, it wasn’t.” 

“Hold your tongue, sir, this instant. Our fine women 
will not take you seriously. You must acquire a habit of 
gallantry ; that, and a fiery courage are essentially necessary 
to a gentleman. A duel or two would go far toward giving 
you a little brilliancy and reputation ; but there is no immedi- 
ate hurry about that.” 

“Very well, sir, but I don’t want to cut any fellow’s 
throat.” 

“ If you can not favor me with more elevated sentiments, 
sir, I desire you will remain silent. You can box with a 


“ALLONS, COURAGE! 


159 


butcher till you look like one yourself, but when I speak 
of fighting like a gentleman, you talk of cutting throats. I 
will not put your courage in doubt — that would be too pain- 
ful a reflection for me to bear !” 

“ Courage, sir !” shouted Jack, involuntarily squaring and 
falling into the most approved boxing attitude. “ I should 
like to see the fellow would frighten me ! I’d give ’em as 
good as they bring, that’s all !” 

“ You atrocious young ruffian, leave the room this instant. 
You low, vulgar bumpkin, you absolutely make me tremble. 
Send Larrazee to me, he is in your room looking over your 
suits, and get yourself ready to go out with me — and for 
heaven’s sake never again let me behold you in the ungrace- 
ful, plebeian posture you thought fit to throw yourself into 
just now. Go !” 

The Baronet leant back in his chair, and languidly took a 
pinch of snufl'. 

“ Shall I ever make any thing of that boy ?” he thought. 
“ No sooner have I corrected one enormity than he breaks out 
in another. Allong, cooragel I have never been foiled in any 
thing yet that I have attempted, and I do hope to succeed 
with him still : the greater the difficulty, the greater the 
glory. He must and shall be all I wish. He will live to 
thank me for it,” he added complacently. 

And so Jack was taken every where, with his father’s eyes 
upon him. There was the musky chariot to convey him 
about, and the elegant suits he never felt at ease in, and all 
the misery of going through all he disliked, and never doing 
the least thing to gratify himself Some persons would, 
under such circumstances, have contracted a sourness of tem- 
per never afterward to be got rid of Jack’s good temper 
remained intact, and his friends, Lord and Lady Langley, 
did all in their power to cheer him on; even little Doris 
wagged her feathery tail and frisked with additional vivacity 


160 


THE SCHOOL EOR FATHERS. 


as soon as he appeared. Jack’s greatest pleasure, in short 
his only one except writing to Lydia, was to be with them. 

“ What do you think my father wants me to do now ?” he 
said one day to Lord Langley. 

“ What ? Learn to dance on the tight-rope, perhaps.” 

“ Make love to Lady Langley ! I told him in so many 
words I’d he hanged if I would. He shan’t make a villain 
of me, as sure as my name’s Jack Warren.” 

“Jack,” said Lord Langley, half sadly, half laughingly, 
“ you’re an honest fellow. It’s a pity your father does not 
see your true value, and let you shine in your natural ca- 
pacity !” 

“He’s a very mean opinion of me!” sighed Jack. “He 
tells me I am to copy you in every thing. If I did so till 
Doomsday, I should never be like you ! You’re such a deli- 
cate, handsome fellow ; and never shy a bit ! I see you go 
and talk to the fine ladies, as though they were so many 
hounds, and you the huntsman !” 

Lord Langley laughed. 

“I tell you what, my dear Jack; don’t copy me : you 
would not he a gainer by it. Each man has his own proper 
gifts : let him improve those to the utmost, and not affect 
those of his neighbors. I should only be laughed at if I af- 
fected the Hercules or the stalwart fox-hunter ; you would be 
equally ridiculous if you gave yourself the airs of a pretty 
fellow. Sir Thomas is mistaken. Jack, in what he’s about. 
However, if you take my advice, jw’ll obey, in all things in- 
nocent ; but, at the end of your two years, stand out manfully 
for your marriage with Lydia, and then lead the country 
life you are so well fitted for.” 

“That’s plain and sensible,” said Jack, “ and jumps with 
my humor exactly. I’m a lucky dog to have you to rny 
friend.” 

“ Little did Sir Thomas dream of the advice Lord Lang- 


A COQUETTE AND HER SLAVES. 


161 


ley gave to Jack ! He was busily looking out among the 
families he visited for a fitting wife for his son. He passed 
them in review ; one was charming, only she lacked fortune ; 
another was rich, but of doubtful genealogy ; a third was 
noble, but too old ; a fourth every thing he could wish for, but 
she looked higher than a baronetcy. At length, all things 
well considered, Sir Thomas fixed his choice on a young 
widow of quality, just two years older than Jack ; which he 
thought would be every thing for the boy. She was very 
pretty, knew the world well for her years, possessed a good 
fortune, a lively temper, and was the widow of a surly, cyni- 
cal man of talent : the more likely. Sir Thomas thought, to 
try matrimony a second time with ^ch a good-tempered, 
open-hearted fellow as his son, Jack. 

The widow had a large train of admirers — all more assidu- 
ous, the one than the other. These she played off with the 
most refined coquetry and the greatest art. It was very dif- 
ficult to pronounce who among them was the “favored swain.” 
One day you might suppose such-an-one to be the man ; the 
next day all would appear changed : the supposed favorite 
was apparently in disgrace, and a rival promoted to the 
honor and pleasure of being next to her — gallanting her 
fan^"* feeding her squirrel, carrying her little dog, leading her 
to and fro, receiving playful raps from her fan, whispering 
love-speeches, and flattering himself that he had distanced 
all his competitors. He, in turn, would be dismissed for an- 
other ; duels, without end, were rife among her suite ; they 
put the same ardor in hating each other that they did in 
adoring her. They had, one and all, fits of hatred toward 
her : at least, so they supposed their frequently recurring 
transports oi depit amoureux'\ to be; but then the widow 
smiled from behind her fan — Love returned, and fallacious 
hope with him ; and she never lost a man from her train. 
Old and young were there ; bright and stupid, rich and poor ; 


162 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


Mistress Fairfax enslaved them all. Her nez muting' 
her large black eyes, her comely form, and charming modes 
were not to be resisted. 

Sir Thomas began his attack by hinting to her that she 
had made dreadful havoc in the heart of his son Jack, as 
well as in his own ; but as he was an “ old fellow^' he thought 
it but right to sacrifice himself to the young one : that Jack 
was such a “ bashful dof' in her presence, he would never 
muster courage to approach her, brave as he was by nature : 
that her charms quite overawed him, and took from him the 
power of utterance, and all his sangfroid. “For 

let me tell you, Master Jack is the most impudent rogue 
under the sun ; but, gad, my dear madam, in your presence 
you would think the boy a very fool. He does not presume 
to draw nigh to you ; let me beseech you to cast but one 
favoring glance on the poor fellow, and render him as grate- 
ful as he is loving : it would cost you nothing to lavish a 
glance on him, when even the most careless look from your 
eyes sheds such havoc around. I ask nothing for myself but 
to mingle with your train, and respectfully sigh at a distance : 
were I five-and-twenty, I should not be so humble — denCme!'^^ 

This little confession suited Mistress Fairfax’s schemes 
most admirably. Her heart, which appeared so fickle to all 
beholders, was riveted to one Colonel Penruddock, a gallant 
officer in the Coldstream regiment of foot guards : one of the 
^'honest Coldstr earner sf as they were called in the days of 
Monk, Duke of Albemarle, the man who raised the corps. 
“ Honest Coldstr earner sf bluft’ soldier-like cognomen ! They 
are somewhat too for it nowadays : “ the Cold- 

streams” — “ Coldstream” — no honest Coldstr earners '" — 
d V heure qu'il est. Well, Mistress Fairfax loved “the 
Colonel,’’ and he adored “ the widow !” and the more she 
loved, the more she ill-used him; and the more he adored 
the more peevish and ill-tempered he grew. The widow 


THE WIDOW AND THE COLONEL. 


163 


had tortured him by means of all her admirers ; the more 
she tortured, the more he loved ; and the more he loved, the 
more she tortured : and the widow, being a woman of in- 
finite tact and feeling, knew precisely the strength and effect 
of every measure she adopted. How it would end none could 
say, not even the Colonel himself : he perhaps less than any 
one ; but the young widow, in her heart, knew full well, and 
rejoiced accordingly. 

Jack was precisely the new actor she required. She be- 
lieved all Sir Thomas had thought fit to say about him. The 
most clever woman in the world will give credit to a tale 
which exalts her for her beauty ; improbable though the tale 
may chance to be. Mistress Fairfax then, threw away a 
few languishing glances on young Squire Warren, which he 
did not perceive : neither had he ever remarked the widow 
at all ; and was not likely to do so of his own accord. 

Sir Thomas however saw for him, and congratulated him- 
self on his scheme having had, as he conceived, so prosperous 
a beginning. The Colonel had seen likewise, and chafed and 
fumed accordingly. 

“A great booby, like Jack ’Warren!” he cried, foaming 
wdth rage. “ A fellow w^ho hasn’t a word to throw to a dog 
— who wears his clothes as if they didn’t belong to him — 
looks like a hog in armor. That is so like women: they, 
take such devilish fancies in their heads ! I’ll give her up, 
by George ! I will. I’ll write her a billet she’ll remember 
to her dying day ! To prefer that great overgrown simple- 
ton to me, after all my sighing and languishing ! She has 
never so much as spoken to the lout ; and ogling him already ! 
I won’t stand it : no, ^ curse if I do !” And the Colonel 
wrote a fiery, frantic, contemptuous, pohte, rude, sorrowful, 
indifferent note, and dispatched it to the widow ; repenting 
the minute it was gone beyond recalling. Mistress Fairfax 
returned a verbal message : her compliments, and she hoped 


164 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Col. Penruddock would be pleased to do as he thought fit. 
The Colonel stormed and raved, and returned to the widow 
a greater slave than ever ; and she thought him so captivat- 
ing, she could hardly resolve to continue her ill usage : but 
she wished for another year of the freedom of widowhood, and 
knew full well that, if she relented, matters would he brought 
to a climax, and she should he Mistress Penruddock before 
she wished it. Besides it was such a pleasure to torment 
the Colonel : he had such a fine mouth. 

“ My dear hoy,” said Sir Thomas to the unconscious Jack, 
as they were taking their breakfast, “ allow me to congratulate 
you on the conquest you have made. Every one is talking 
about it. ’Gad, you sly rogue ! how quiet you’ve kept it : 
hut the lady has betrayed herself by her looks. She’s a de7rb 
fine creature ; and report says you have only to speak to 
make her yours. Really my dear boy, I’ve great hopes of 
you : and all the pretty fellows are ready to burst with rage 
and disappointment !” 

The old Baronet spoke all this mendacious speech with 
such an air of truth, the most penetrating might have been 
deceived by it — much more honest Jack Warren ! He stared 
at his father a minute, and then said : 

How ] What, sir ?— 7 don’t know what it’s all about, ’pon 
my soul !” 

“Very well played, Jack — very well!” cried Sir Thomas, 
gently clapping his hands, as though in applause. “ But you 
can’t deceive me, you sly rascal : besides, it’s the talk of the 
town, and every one says what a lucky young dog you are 
like to be !” 

“ Hang it, if I know whether I’m standing on my head 
or my heels ! Please to tell me, sir, in plain words, what you 
mean'?” 

“ Why, the Widow Fairfax adores you !” 

“ Me ?” cried Jack, looking wild. 


L’AMOUEEUX MALGRE LUI. 


165 


Yes, you scamp — you ! Don’t you see the glances she 
bestows on you ?” said Sir Thomas. 

“ Can’t say I do, sir,” replied Jach. 

“ Weil, then, open your eyes! You’ll he in her company 
to-night at Lady Bah Somerset’s : observe her well ; take 
some pity on her, poor thing, and pay your addresses in style. 
The game’s in your own hands — pray do not lose this oppor- 
tunity of bring yourself well into notice. The patronage of 
so fine a woman, will help you on, and cover any little defects 
yet latent in you. Do, my dear boy, I entreat, seize this 
advantage and keep it.” 

The Baronet was on a new tack. He wished to try what 
efTect a little pampering and flattery would have on his im- 
practicable son. 

“ I don’t fancy it at all, sir !” said Jack, after a pause. 

“ Why — may I ask 1” said Sir Thomas, blandly. 

“Why,- you see, sir, I don’t *want to marry the woman.” 

“ You need not do so, my dear boy : no one can force you 
to that.” 

“ Then what’s the use, sir, of putting myself out of the 
way to make love to her 1” 

Sir Thomas felt very peevish at this question; but he 
suppressed his feelings, and replied : 

“Put yourself under my directions. Jack. All I do, my 
dear child, is for your good. Enroll jjurself among Mistress 
Fairfax’s admirers : it will cost you nothing, engage you to 
nothing, and you can form no conception the ultimate ad- 
vantage it will prove to you.” 

Jack could not very well see in what this advantage was 
to consist; but breakfast 'being concluded, he said, “Very 
well, sir,” and determined to ask Lord Langley’s opinion on 
the point. Lord Langley laughed very much 'when Jack put 
the case before him ; and so did Lady Langley, who was present 
at the time. 


166 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHEUS. 


“ My good fellow,” said his lordship, “ the lady in question 
is an arrant coquette. She’s leading poor Penruddock a 
dreadful dance. If you have a fancy for a little flirtation 
with her, it won’t injure her ; only mind you don’t burn your 
own wings.” 

“ I don’t want any flirtations,” replied Jack ; “ it’s so much 
trouble : besides, there’s my little Lyddie at home, and I don’t 
care for fine ladies.” 

“Well,” rejoined his friend, “ then the case stands thus: 
your father wishes you to he well with the widow ; you don’t 
care about it. She’s not worth displeasing him about. Keep 
your heart for your Lydia ; but if he insists on your addressing 
the beauty, do so, for the sake of a quiet life. She’ll give you 
no trouble : all she’ll require will be your attendance now and 
then to vex some other man — Penruddock especially. Only 
mind what you’re about with him : he’s a most quarrelsome, 
passionate fellow.” 

“ Well — thank’ee — I’ll see about it,” sighed Jack. “ Hang 
it — I wish I was safe back in the country again, with none 
of this bother going on. I wonder any fellow can be found to 
relish such nonsense.” 

At Lady Bab Somerset’s rout, Sir Thomas observed both 
the widow' and his son ; gliding about as he did so, and paying 
his devoirs here, and gallanting there, without seeming to know 
that there were two such persons in existence as Jack Warren 
and Mistress Fairfax. 

As for Jack, he felt very uncomfortable, and more shy and 
awkw^ard than ever : his legs and arms were horrible incum- 
brances to him ; he did not know what to do with them, 
where to bestow them. The buzz of an assembly, the smell 
of perfume, the dazzle of lights, always produced a flutter of 
the heart, and a rush of blood to the head, he never succeeded 
in overcoming ; and on the evening in question, the conscious- 
ness that the widow’s glances and the Baronet’s gray eyes 


A RETREAT. 


16 v 


were upon him, doubled his confusion and embarrassment. 
He felt that Mistress Fairfax was “ ogling'^ him, raised his 
eyes, met hers, turned his back to her and stalked to the 
furthest end of the next room. Sir Thomas perceived the 
movement, and seized the opportunity for making play in his 
son’s name with the widow — sidling up to her, and pointing 
out to her notice Jack’s state of bewilderment and confusion, 
and his precipitate retreat — all of which Mistress Fairfax had 
perceived and gloried in accordingly. 

“ You must allow me to present the poor love-sick wretch 
to you,” said Sir Thomas. “ Faith ! he will never take 
courage to address you unless I support him. Your charms 
have taken such hold on the boy, he is losing his appetite 
rapidly, and I hear him pacing about his room at night instead 
of sleeping. ’Gad, my dear madam, I shall expect him to 
throw off a copy of verses in your honour and then shoot him- 
self, unless you take compassion on the miserable Strephon!” 

We will see about it,” lisped the widow : “ he will be 
strangely entertaining after the fribbles and coxcombs one 
meets with. I shall be vastly happy to make his acquaint- 
ance.” 

Mistress Fairfax inclined her head. Sir Thomas bowed, 
and went in quest of Jack. The widow was anxious to have 
him established by her side before Colonel Penruddock should 
arrive. She had been so gracious to him in the morning — he 
was so full of hope and spirits — that she knew it would be 
necessary to “ take him down'' in the evening. He expected 
to be by her side, and indulge in a few hours of happiness, 
w^herefore Mistress Fairfax established herself on a sofa 
capable of holding a lady, a gentleman, and a hoop ; where, 
with Jack by her side, she could bid defiance to the Colonel, 
and triumph in his rage and misery. 

“ My dear boy,” said Sir Thomas, going up to Jack in the 
corner, behind a folding-screen, whither he had retreated, “ how 


168 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


unconscionably cruel you are to that poor creature. She has 
no eyes for any one but you, I protest ; and you are barbarous 
enough to fly her. You should have seen the despairing, ini' 
ploring look she cast after you as you left the room. I suspect 
you are playing a very deep game, Master Jack,” and the 
Baronet bestowed on him a meaning smile, as though he really 
was convinced of what he was saying. 

“Not I, sir, ’pon my soul,” grunted Jack; “all I ask, is, 
to go quietly home to bed !” 

“ You’re not ill, I hope, my dear child ?” 

“ No sir, quite well, thank’ ee ; but I’ve no opinion of a 
woman casting sheep’s eyes at a young fellow, and I don’t 
want to have any thing to say to her.” 

“ Nonsense, Jack I why it’s a feather in your cap, my dear 
fellow ! Poor Colonel Penruddock would give his right hand 
for one of the fond glances she wastes on you, you hard-hearted 
young dog. Come ! let me conduct you to her feet. You 
need not say a word more than you like. It will be quite 
happiness enough for the poor enamored creature to have you 
by her side ! Come !” and the Baronet with his white-gloved 
finger and thumb, seized Jack by his embroidered cuff to lead 
him away. But Jack resisted, and hung back. 

“ I’ll have nothing to do with her, sir ! I can’t bear such 
forward bold minxes.” 

“You wdll come with me, sir,” said his father, with one of 
his coldest stares. Jack obeyed. Though grown bolder than 
of yore toward Sir Thomas, the cold stare never failed in 
quelling him. 

Sir Thomas with a courtly inclination presented Jack to the 
widow. He bowed, tant hien que mat. She received him 
with a gracious smile, and a brisk fluttering of her fan. Sir 
Thomas, grasping his arm, seated him by Mistress Fairfax, 
and withdrew to continue his observations. 

“ Once get him to notice her, and look at her, he will soon 


AN INTRACTABLE STREPHON. 


169 


be over head and ears in love with her, and she appears 
monstrously well affected toward him — so thought the 
Baronet, and felt very well pleased with himself and his 
diplomacy. 

Jack sat stiff, gasping, and scarlet beside the fair widow, 
who left him to recover himself a little, while she frequently 
directed her eyes to the door in expectation of the Colonel’s 
arrival. She fully believed all Sir Thomas had recounted 
about Jack, and taking all his shyness and awkwardness for 
the effects of a mighty and unrequited passion, felt quite elated 
at her supposed power over him. He amused her too ; being 
so totally different from the pert beings who paid their court 
lightly and airily to her, as well as from the Colonel, who 
alternated between a tornado and an ordinary thunder- 
storm. 

At length the Colonel arrived, brilliant in scarlet, gold and 
gorget, smiles and good looks ; for he was a handsome man, 
though generally disfigured by an air of discontent and angry 
contempt. He made the requisite bows with a very good 
“ and turned smiling toward the widow ! She knew it ; 
wherefore, from behind her fan, she addressed herself to Jack ; 
giving herself a pretty little troubled, ruffled mien, as though 
she were answering to some very tender •pro'pos^ “You 
are not long from the country, Mr. Warren, I hear,” was all 
she said. 

“ No,” croaked Jack. “ Wish to heaven I’d never left it.” 

The widow construed this speech into a declaration a double 
entendre^ that if he had never left the country he should never 
have met her ; never have loved her, never have been 
miserable. 

“Very pretty !” she thought, and saw the Colonel’s smiles 
turn to a frown, and his advance to a retreat ; for he turned 
on his heel, withdrew into the next room, and, unseen himself, 
observed the movements of the enemy, in a large mirror, which 

H 


170 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


reflected the form of the lovely widow, and that of poor 
tortured Jack. 

“ Charming ! — he’s wild with rage and disappointment,” 
thought Mistress Fairfax ; and although he had left the room, 
she was too cunning to alter her allure^ and martyrized Jack 
accordingly. She was right — the Colonel eyed her smallest 
movement. 

“ Coquette ! — Looby ! — And as for me, I’m a fool — a dupe 
— a plaything. Now she’s dropt her fan : her charming swain 
don’t move to pick it up — deuce a hit. Dick Fielding is 
giving it to her, with his confounded titter and jerking bow, 
and she looks tender at the gaby ; and he turns out his ugly 
feet, hangs his wrist on his sword-hilt, and plumes himself 
not a little. Now she looks fond again on that idiot, Jack 
Warren ; and he looks straight forward, with his eyes bursting 
from his head, as though he was about to have an apoplectic 
fit. I wish he would, with all my heart. How can she love 
a dolt like that ? ’Pon my soul, I think women really do 
prefer those creatures. Just like Titania and Bottom the 
tailor ! And this morning she was all smiles arid playful love 
for me. This very evening, too, I meant to offer my hand ! 
I feel inclined to run all these smiling fools through — madam 
and her admirer with the rest of them — and then blow my 
own disordered brains out !” 

Colonel Penruddock, after an hour spent in tormenting 
himself with the mirror, took his departure in a detestable 
frame of mind ; just as Sir Thomas, conceiving matters to 
have arrived at a very satisfactory point, withdrew Jack, 
much to his delight ; and left the widow to coquet with Dick 
Fielding, Tom Knightly, Harry Stapelton, and many more, 
and to wonder why Penruddock did not reappear. 

“ My dear Jack,” said Sir Thomas, as they rolled along 
homeward in the foppish chariot, “you really begin to shinO. 
Did you observe poor Colonel Penruddock ?” 


JACK’S WISHES. 


171 


“ No, sir — don’t know him when I see him.” 

“ Why, that handsome fellow with the well-turned leg, in 
the uniform of the Coldstream Guards. Not the fair one with 
the small features, but the dark thin man with the marked 
eyebrows I” 

Ay, sir, I remember him, now : looks yellow, as if his face 
was dirty.” 

“ My dear child, do not give way to such expressions, let 
me enti’eat you. The Colonel is very sallow, no doubt. You 
should have seen how vexed and enraged he became when he 
saw you on such easy terms with the widow. He retired into 
the next apartment and watched you in a mirror. You were 
the talk of the whole assembly, and he must have heard a 
great deal to perplex and annoy him. How do you like the 
Widow Fairfax?” 

“ Not much, sir : she turns her eyes about, and gives her- 
self such mighty airs and graces. She’s very different to my 
Lady Langley and rny little Lyddie.” 

Here Jack gave a deep sigh. 

“Umph !” said Sir Thomas, aloud. 

“ iVz/ desperandiim,'' said Sir Thomas to himself; ^‘the 
widow will entrap thee yet, honest Jack.” 

“ I wish she’d have Colonel What’s-his-name, with the 
yellow face, and leave me in peace and quiet,” said Jack, 
sleepily. “ She’ll get nothing for her pains : I’ll be hanged 
if she does !” 

The chariot stopped, or Sir Thomas would have lectured 
Jack on his phraseology. 

“ I wish I was out of it all,” sighed Jack, as he got into 
bed, refreshed by a tankard of cold bright ale, provided by his 
ally, M. Larrazee. 

Jack’s condition became more insupportable to him than 
ever : fine clothes, tutors, dancing and fencing masters, French 
cookery, routs and assemblies, his father’s lectures, and a 


172 


THE SCHOOL FOU FATHERS. 


dearth of ale and tobacco, no hunting and no congenial com- 
panions — all this was bad enough and hard to bear ; but the 
Widow Fairfax superadded, made the weight intolerable. 
She was in all parties where Jack appeared, and Sir Thomas 
insisted on his going up to her, and repeating a little com- 
pliment which the Baronet concocted for him each evening ; 
he standing near enough' to hear it repeated. Jack croaking it 
forth, the widow enchanted : she still viewing his awkward 
bashfulness as the effect of his overpowering passion for her. 

As for Colonel Penruddock, his humor became blacker and 
more black every day : he absented himself from his idol during 
a whole week ; but she smiled on him from her coach in the 
Park, he followed her home, threw himself at her feet, raved 
like a maniac, accused himself like a penitent, obtained pardon 
and soft glances, and the next day was treated more disdain- 
fully than ever. 

“ Je veux eviter sa presence, 

Je veux n’etre plus amoureux — 

Je veux — mais sitot que j’y pense, 

. Je ne sais plus — je ne sais plus, ce que je veux. 

These four lines contain in few words the exact representation 
of the Colonel’s feelings. He hated every thing and every 
body, himself and the widow included ; but poor Jack was the 
especial object of his ire and detestation : if looks could scorch 
and blast like lightning, innocent unconscious Jack w^ould have 
been reduced to a mass of ashes by Colonel Penruddock’s 
flashing Inrid eyes. But Jack observed him not, although Sir 
Thomas did ; and the Baronet, noticing his wrath and un- 
easiness, and Mistress Fairfax’s apparent indifference and 
sang-froid, together with her flattering reception of his son, 
became, as it were, his own dupe; and imagined that every 
thing was proceeding as swimmingly as he could desire. 

“ My dear boy,” he said with insinuating mien and voice, 


A LESSON IN LOVE MAKING. 


173 


as Jack, dressed and perfumed for a ball at Lady Ilsley’s, 
stept into bis room ; — “ My dear boy,, I must beg of you, as a 
great favor, to exert yourself to-night more than ever. The 
widow is yours, I assure you : that wretched man Colonel 
Penruddock is quite discarded for you. 1 heard one of his 
brother officers say he thought he would go crazy ; and his 
temper has become so intolerable, no one dares speak to him. 
What a triumph for you, my dear Jack ! — for it is all your 
doing !’* 

“ I’m uncommon sorry for it, sir,” said Jack, with one of 
his long sighs. “ I don’t want the widow ; and what’s more 
W'on’t have her. The Colonel, poor fellow, must be clooced 
unhappy !” 

“It’s very well for you. Master Jack, to affect pity and 
indifference, you sly dog : but I see through you ! I must 
have you lead out the widow in a minuet, directly you meet 
her ; gently press her hand, without vulgarly squeezing it, in 
those parts of the dance w'here the music is most expressive; 
whisper in her ear as you reconduct her, that you are dying 
for her : that, with a little agreeable conversation, will be 
sufficient for this evening ; look tenderly at her from a dis- 
tance, and reverentially cast down your eyes when she per- 
ceives you ; — this you. may repeat three or four times. Just 
turn round a minute ; your sword is all on one side : Larra- 
zee should have looked to it ; there, that will do, I’ve put it 
right. I’rii really growing quite proud of you, my dear 
child and the wily old gentleman smiled approvingly on his 
son. 

“ Glad of it, sir. But I can’t dance : I’m sure I should ido 
it all wrong. Hang me ! if ever I remember which way my 
last bow is to be made ; and I always make it somehow with 
my back to Monjoo Doo'poidy. Might do so to the lady, you 
know, sir !” 

“ Nonsense, sir. Pivot round on your left foot, that will 


174 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


bring you with your face toward her — then execute your 
bow!” 

“ The chariot is at the door, Sir Thomas !” cried a footman, 
and cut short the conversation. 

“ Well!” thought Jack, as they drove off; “Til tell the 
widow honestly and plainly all about it, and advise her to 
give me up, and take to poor Colonel Thing-eni’bob. I don’t 
like her or her ways, and never shall, making so free : she 
should wait till I make love to her. She’s putting the cart 
before the horse ! Hang me ! if I dance a minuet, and make 
a fool of myself — I’ve no turn for ’em — always leave off long 
before the music’s over — won’t do at all— twisting about like 
a great fool !” 

Lady Ilsley’s rooms were brilliantly lighted ; the girandoles 
glittering like diamonds ; velvet, silk, and satin, of various 
colors, making the assembly look like a rich parterre \ soft 
music and sweet perfume filled the air : gentle laughter and 
voices sounded around, while Jack’s ears began, as usual, to 
burn, and his face to flush. There was the widow, in pale 
pink satin, reclining in a fauteuil of white brocaded silk, sur- 
rounded by Dick Fielding and several others, in suits of silk 
and velvet, sparkling with rich embroidery and divers precious 
stones; there stood Colonel Penruddock in his aristocratic 
uniform, leaning against the chimney-piece frowning on his 
beloved with scowling brows. 

Jack made his bow to his grandmama'^ with better 
success than on his first appearance in her “ salons . She sat 
on a small sofa to receive her company, Sappho purring 
sleepily beside her, with her little round feet just visible 
beneath her snow-white breast,, and a smart bow of silver 
and blue standing up above her little sharp ears. 

Sir Thomas did not quit Jack ; but, to the inexpressible 
relief of the latter, Mistress Fairfax was led past them to 
dance a minuet with Tom Knightley, so that Jack had only 


MINUET DANCING. 


175 


to make a bow and receive a smile as she passed. The 
Colonel moodily followed her, to watch her exquisite dancing 
and collect further matter for uneasiness and discontent. 

She was successively led out by Dick Fielding, old Lord 
York, and Sir Charles Stanhope ; so that the evening was 
passing, and Jack began to hope he should escape without 
molestation. Vain hope ! Sir Thomas touched his elbow, 
and riveted his gray eyes upon him — “You will now go, sir, 
and ask Mistress Fairfax to honor you, ^the most devoted 
of her slaves' by dancing a minuet with you. You under- 
stand!” 

“ I can’t, sir, ’pon my soul : I don’t — ” 

“ Nonsense, sir !” cried the Baronet, grasping his arm, and 
giving himself the air of saying something to his son en badi- 
nant, while his voice was harsh and determined; “go this 
instant, d’ye hear ! I shall follow you, and watch you. Don’t 
let me lose the good opinion I begin to entertain of you. 
Hold your head up and present yourself with an air ! All 
the world is persuaded that you are the favored lover ; so 
maintain your character. Just observe the poor, disconsolate, 
crest-fallen guardsman ! He eyes you, my dear boy, as if he 
could annihilate you ; and the fair widow is showering such 
fascinating looks on you ! ’Gad she’d melt a heart of stone. 
Eng avong, Jack. Victory is in your hands !” 

Sir Thomas assumed his jpateline voice as he uttered the 
last sentences, and pushed Jack forward, took a pinch of snuff 
with his best grace, and felt certain he should at last make 
something' poor patient boy. He put one hand in his 

well frilled breast, the other on his sword-hilt, smiled imper- 
ceptibly, and followed Jack’s progress with his gray eyes, 
peering from beneath his huge black eyebrows. 

The Baronet was not the only one who thus regarded the 
young Squire as he moved, with more rapidity than grace, in 
the direction of the widow. Colonel Penruddock’s malignant 


176 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


glance was on him. Hatred, contempt, and jealousy, gleam- 
ed in his eye. That very morning. Mistress Fairfax had 
carelessly said — on jpurjpose^ of course — that she never beheld 
so fine a man as Mr. Warren — that he possessed so artless, 
yet so fascinating, a mode of paying his addresses, she was 
sure no heart could resist him; then she leant her cheek on 
her hand, looked absent, sighed, and allowed the Colonel to 
address her twice before she appeared to know that he had 
done so at all. The Colonel threw himself into one of his 
most violent tornados, and rushed out of the house. The 
widow tapped her chin approvingly with her fan, surveyed 
her charming face in the glass, laughed, hummed an opera 
tune, and went to the auction. 

The Colonel had not condescended so much as to bow to 
her, on the evening in question. When he saw Jack proceed- 
ing toward her, the muscles of his thin face worked nervously. 
He placed himself in the way, and, as Jack approached, 
leaned his hand on the back of a chair, and advanced his 
right foot directly in Jack’s path. Jack hurrying to get it 
over^' perceived not the guardsman’s movement. He drew 
near : the Colonel, contracting every muscle, held his foot 
firmly planted. Jack tripped : the Colonel smiled a ghastly 
smile. Had Jack been lighter or more active, he would 
have tripped and recovered himself ; but the poor fellow was 
neither : he tripped, stumbled, ran two or three paces for- 
ward, and fell prostrate at the widow’s feet. Good manners 
were totally forgotten, and a titter, which grew to a laugh, 
saluted Jack’s misfortune. Sir Thomas swore and fumed. 
Jack arose: anger and indignation chased shyness and maU’ 
vaise honte from his soul. Every thing around him seem- 
ed to whirl and totter ; he heard the laughter ; he felt the 
insult. He strode up to Colonel Penruddock, like a young 
Hercules, and, in a loud clear voice, he shouted ; 

“Was that on purpose or by accident ?” 


A DANGEROUS RIVAL. 


177 


“On purpose,” replied the Colonel, bowing, and then draw* 
ing himself up to his utmost height. 

“ Then take that !” roared Jack ; and doubling his pon- 
derous fist, he drew it hack to his shoulder, then straightening 
his arm with the iron strength of a gladiator, he struck the 
Colonel on the face with the whole might of his thick, mus- 
cular arm. The Colonel reeled and fell, crushing a chair in 
his fall. All the men present rushed toward him ; the laugh- 
ter was hushed ; Penruddock arose with an oath, the blood 
streaming from his face. Several ladies fell into ''hysteric 
affections'' and faintings ; hut the gentlemen being all occu- 
pied round Jack and the Colonel, they soon recovered their 
senses. Sir Thomas drew his son away from Penruddock, 
anger and disgust stamped upon his features. 

The Colonel, followed by three or four of his corps, who 
were present, hurried from the room. It was in vain that 
Mistress Fairfax gazed after him, her real feelings flashing 
from her eyes : his face was buried in his handkerchief, and 
he saw her not. 

“Do not quit me, sir !” said Sir Thomas to his son. “You 
are a low ruffian ! Come and make your bow to my Lady 
Ilsley, and we will return home. I’m wounded and humil- 
iated by your enormities beyond measure.” 

“ I despair of you,” continued the Baronet, as they descend- 
ed the stairs. “ You can not even return an insult like a 
gentleman. You should have sent the Colonel a challenge 
— not have behaved like a low villain, turning her ladyship’s 
rooms into a bear-garden. Gracious heavens ! what will 
you do next?” 

“ He put my blood up, sir, and I didn’t think or care where 
I was !” 

Jack felt a friendly pressure on his arm, and heard Lord 
Langley’s gentle voice : 

“My dear Jack, you will hear further from Penruddock 


178 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


He has dispatched one of his brother officers to Grosvenor 
Square, to await your return with a challenge. I will be 
your ‘second,’ if you think fit !” 

“ Your Ludship is too obleeging'^ said Sir Thomas, politely. 
“ I’m sure Ja6k is infinitely indebted to you. I hope he will 
redeem his character. He has acted rashly, and should have 
been content with challenging the Colonel.” 

Lord Langley slightly shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Shall I desire my people to drive to Grosvenor Square 
after your chariot he inquired. 

“ By all means,” replied the Baronet. 

“ I hope, sir, you will not add to your atrocious conduct by 
showing the white feather and refusing to meet the Colonel,” 
he said to Jack, as they proceeded home. 

“ Not I, sir : I am afraid to meet no man living.” 

“You have been so w'ell grounded by Cooderc, and the 
Colonel allows himself to be so led away by temper and blind- 
ed by rage, you will soon arrange the affair for him. The duel 
will be every thing for you — give you vast eclat : the widow 
will surrender at once. Do, my dear child, exert yourself — 
carry yourself through it with an air, and thus efface your 
horribly vulgar conduct this evening. Think that the eyes 
of the whole town, as well as the fair widow’s, are upon you !” 

“ Hang the widow, sir ! If it wasn’t for her, I shouldn’t 
be in this scrape.” 

“ Tut-tut-tut ! You ought to rejoice beyond measure. I’m 
sure I do. An affair of honor for a fine woman 1 What more 
can you desire 1 I regret you should have behaved as you 
did ; but you must efface all that with your sword. Above 
all things, don’t lose your temper : bear in mind all Cooderc’s 
hints and instructions : be up betimes, and practice a little 
to supple yourself before you start ; and with all you have 
learnt, and your superior length of arm and reach, the Colonel 
will stand no chance with you !” 


A LESSON IN DUELING. 


179 


“I shan’t hurt him, if I can help it, poor fellow I” 

“ Gracious heavens, my dear child, what a lout you are ! 
Do you intend to throw away this immense advantage, as 
you have done all the rest ? Do you mean to allow the Colo- 
nel to run you through, and then walk off with the widow]” 
“ No, sir ! I shall defend myself : but I bear no malice 
to the Colonel. I knocked him down in hot blood; but I 
don’t want to cut his throat in cool blood. As for the widow, 
my service to her : he’s quite welcome to carry her off.” 

“ My dear boy, do not use that odious expression, ‘ cut his 
throat ' — as though you were speaking of a pig instead of a 
gentleman. Mind you bring my Lord Langley home to 
breakfast with you: don’t forget. that. You had better go 
out in your plainest morning suit — the brown velvet one — 
and put on plain linen : the less you have about your wrist 
the bettci:,” 

“ Very well, sir.” 

On arriving, they found Colonel Penruddock’s friend and 
brother-officer awaiting them. The challenge was given and 
received ; and Lord Langley and Captain Richmond retired 
to another room to arrange every thing for the meeting, which 
it was agreed should take place, at daybreak, at the back of 
Montague House. 

“I shall leave you, my dear Jack,” said Sir Thomas lan- 
guidly, “ to say ‘ good-night’ to my Lord Langley, for me. I 
feel so shaken by your violent conduct this evening, I must 
retire to bed. Ring the bell for Larrazee. Remember all I 
have said to you ; and above all things, don’t slam the doors 
and stamp about in the morning, as you usually do. Go out 
gently : if you rouse me suddenly, at an early hour, I shall 
have the headache all day. Good-night. I recommend you 
to get to bed as soon as you can — rest steadies the nerves. 
Larrazee, donnez moa le bras !” 

“Good-night, sir ; God bless you !” cried Jack, eagerly ex- 


180 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


tending his hand to his father ! But Sir Thomas saw it not 
— he was busy telling Larrazee how much shaken he felt. 

Jack watched him as he left the room. 

“ If that fierce fellow spits me,” he thought, “ 1 shall never 
see my father again !” and he sighed deeply. 

My dear Jack,” said Lord Langley, joining him in his 
room ; “ we have arranged every thing. You meet at dawn, 
at the back of Montague House. If you will allow me, I’ll 
call for you in my chariot.” 

“ Thank’ee, with all my heart,” cried Jack, wringing his 
white delicate hand, and crushing his fingers against his dia- 
mond ring. “ My father seems to make uncommon light of 
it all ; but I don’t see why the Colonel hasn’t just as good a 
chance as I have.” 

** My dear fellow, you’re right : never make light of your 
adversary ; it’s the worst thing in the world. Penruddock’s 
an excellent swordsman, but he often lets his temper get the 
better of him ; you are very cool and even tempered, I know, 
as we have often fenced together ; and in that you’ll have an 
immense advantage over him. However,” he added, smiling, 
rather sadly, “ I suppose we ought to go through the usual 
routine^ so my dear Jack, any thing you may wish done, in 
case of an accident, I bind myself faithfully to attend to.” 

“Thank’ee, thank’ee: you’re a fast friend. _I should like 
those all to go to my poor, old uncle,” said Jack, pointing to 
his little hunting trophy of cap, whip, and spurs ; “ and my 
ebony cane, and plain gold watch, with my love, and I’ve 
always felt grateful to him for all his kindness.” 

“ It shall be done ; we had better seal them up, and direct 
them to him.” 

Jack walked up to the fire, and stirred it mechanically, 
saying : 

“ I should like my Lyddie to have my diamond ring and 
enameled watch, with the chain and seals ; and my love, 


THE NIGHT BEFORE THE DUEL. 


181 


and I never saw the woman I could compare to her — never. 
I’ll also send my enameled ring to Dr. Freeman ; and a fifty- 
pound note to Mistress Freeman, for her poor people : my 
respects to ’em — and that’s all.” 

“ You had better write it down, and seal the things up for 
them ; and I’ll just lie down on your bed, my dear Jack, and 
not disturb you.” 

Jack made his various little arrangements, and Lord Lang- 
ley watched him with a very heavy heart. 

“ Are you asleep,, Langley 

“ No ; what is it ?” 

“ Only, I have just taken it into my head, I should like to 
be buried in the village, with the honors of the chase : I’ve 
written it down. And now I’ve nothing more to do, but go 
to bed : I’m very heavy and drowsy !” 

Lord Langley left him to his repose — having promised to 
bring a first-rate Parisian sword for Jack’s use— and carried 
off the poor fellow’s bequests. 

The Colonel had passed the night in writing a lengthy and 
furious epistle to the widow, in which he offered up himself 
as a victim to her — laid his death at her door — and inclosed 
a lock of his hair ; he walked about his room, viewed his dis- 
figured face in the glass a thousand times, and vowed ven- 
geance on Jack. 

“ Cursed disagreeable ! to fall with such a d — d horrid 
looking face, if the fellow does for me ! Confound his great 
clumsy fist 1 Some fool or other will go and tell Arabella 
how like a low fellow, with a swelled face, I looked, and the 
jade will laugh at my death ; whereas if my features were 
all right, the pallor of death, and so forth, would make a sen- 
timental description, and, joined to the recollection of her 
cruelty, would bring Madam to a sense of her faults — revive 
her love for me, and perhaps bring her to the grave. I’ll do 
my best : I can’t bear the thought of her jeers with Dick 


182 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Fielding, and the rest of ’em ; or the idea that she will marry 
one of the set — that looby, Jack 'VVarren, perhaps: wonder 
how he handles his weapon— clumsily enough, I take it. 
Curse me ! if I don’t make an example of him !” 

Lord Langley called for Jack half-an-hour before day- 
break, and found him comfortably seated, taking his breakfast 
by candle-light, as coolly as if he were restoring nature pre- 
viously to starting for a journey by an early coach. 

“ I’m glad to see you so well employed, my dear Jack ! 
When you’ve done, you may as wel,l try this sword, and see 
how you manage it.” 

Jack did so, and expressed his entire approbation of the sil- 
ver-mounted glittering weapon. Day was coldly and cheer- 
lessly breaking as they stepped into Lord Langley’s elegant 
chariot — an undress carriage without arms or decoration, 
but perfect in form and build. 

“ To the .corner of Montague House,” cried Lord Langley 
to the footman ; “ tell the coachman softly, before you get 
up !” 

“ Yes, my lord ;” and off they rolled. 

There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, 
which only partially covered the ground ; the shrill thin voice 
of the sweep, and the rolling of a few heavy dust-carts were 
the predominating sounds; the air was damp and penetrating 
— the atmosphere murky and dull, and beginning to be charged 
with the smoke of. early, fires ; the shops were unopened — -few 
passengers abroad — here and there a workman proceeding to 
his work, pipe in mouth. 

“ It’s very cold,” said Lord Langley, as they w^alked quickly 
to the back of Montague House. “I wonder if the Colonel’s 
on the ground ?” 

“ I see him drawing near,” said Jack ; “ there’s the Cap- 
tain with him, and another fellow — the surgeon, I take it.” 

Lord Langley forced a smile and said : 


THE DUEL. 


183 


“ To make our party equal to theirs, I begged our family 
surgeon to be on the ground — and there he is.” 

“ Thank’ee — it was very thoughtful of you. My love to 
my father, and I hope heTl accept the watch I brought from 
the country, in remembrance of me. Hang it ! I forgot his 
message — hopes you’ll come home to breakfast with us, if I 
come off all right.” 

“ I shall be delighted.” 

Preliminaries were soon settled, and the combatants, strip- 
ping off coat, waistcoat, and stock, crossed their well-tempered, 
glittering, taper swords. 

“ What a fine young fellow your friend is, my lord,” whis- 
pered Lord Langley’s surgeon to him. “ I never saw a finer 
man, dead or alive : pity if he falls.” 

Lord Langley sighed, and looked sorrowfully at poor Jack. 
The regimental surgeon, who attended the Colonel, was equal- 
ly struck with him. 

“ Egad, sir, what a grenadier he’d make,” he said to Cap- 
tain Richmond. 

“ I should ask nothing better than to command a battalion 
of the same sort,” was the reply. 

Jack and the Colonel began their duel under very different 
feelings. Jack was determined not to hurt the Colonel, but 
merely to parry his thrusts : he had no ill-will toward him, 
and no feeling for duels. The Colonel, on the other hand, felt 
that he was opposed to a rival, and a man who had insulted 
him, and put him in a ridiculous position beneath the very 
eyes of his mistress. His soul was bitter with hatred and 
revenge ; and he swore that either Jack or himself must die 
that day. 

After a short “ hout^' seeing Jack’s play, he dropped the point 
of his sword, and cried with flashing eyes and angry voice : 

“ 1 will not be treated like a child, sir. Fight fairly, and 
attack me as well as defend your self ^ 


184 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


Jack obeyed : and presently bis bright sword entered Pen- 
ruddock’s right breast. Forlunalcly for him, the point slipped 
along one of the ribs, instead of penetrating between them ; 
and anon the fight was renewed. The swords wound about 
each other like lightning ; the clear, light clashing peculiar 
to the “ small sword” — only to be lightly explained by the 
word diqiietis'' — was the only sound heard. Jack received 
a wound in the thick of the arm, but acquitted himself very 
well : never lost his coolness or temper, and gave the Colonel 
a great deal to do. 

Still the swords clashed and glittered ; seconds and surgeons, 
breathless with interest, knew not on which of the combatants 
to pronounce. 

At last, Penruddock, with the expression of a demon, par- 
ried one of Jack’s thrusts^ — advanced — lunged — the guard of 
his sharp sword struck his adversary’s ribs in a line with his 
breast — the reddened blade coming out beneath the left arm- 
pit. 

“ Thank the gods !” muttered the Colonel, as he drew out 
his sword ; and Lord Langley, Captain Richmond, and both 
surgeons rushed toward poor Jack. 

“ I don’t think it’s much,” he said, putting his hand to his 
side. Is the Colonel satisfied ?” 

Lord Langley put his arm around him ; Jack’s face grew 
pale — his knees gave way beneath his weight, and he sank to 
the earth, supporting himself on his hands. The surgeons 
tore away his shirt, the sooner to arrive at his wound. They 
saw at once the course the sword had taken, and shook their 
heads at Lord Langley. 

“You’d better not move him or disturb him, my lord — it 
will soon be over,” whispered the regimental surgeon. 

Lord Langley, kneeling down, supported his dying friend, 
and took his hand in his. Poor Jack feebly pressed it, and 
with an efibrt said : 


THE CATASTROPHE. 


185 


“Will you break it to my uncle and Lyddie? God bless 
you !” 

“I will, on my honor,” replied Lord Langley, his eyes 
filled with tears. 

There was solemn silence — a silence that could be felt. 
The surgeons knelt on each side of Jack. The Colonel and 
his friend were gone. 

“ It’s all over, my lord !” cried Lord Langley’s surgeon, 
and closed Jack’s eyes. 

Lord Langley laid him gently down, and covering his own 
face with his handkerchief, wept aloud. 

Sir Thomas Warren was selfishly sleeping in his warm 
and darkened room, on his soft and yielding bed. He dreamt 
of cards and brilliant assemblies — then turned heavily and 
half awoke — closed his eyes — awoke more fully — then quite. 

“ What in the name of heaven, are they about he cried 
pettishly, and listened. He heard the sound of heavy steps 
in thick and clumsy shoes ; they moved along the stone cor- 
ridor, which divided his room from his son’s, as though they 
bore a weight ; there were whispering voices ; Jack’s door 
was shut ; and all was silent. Presently the door was re- 
opened, and the clumsy footsteps passed the Baronet’s room, 
lumbering along. They were the footsteps of four Irish 
laborers, who had conveyed his son’s body home on a door. 
Lord Langley had walked beside it, his carriage slowly fol- 
lowing. 

Sir Thomas rang his bell, with pettish violence, for Larra- 
zee ; but Larrazee w'as wailing over poor Jack, and heard it 
not. Again the bell was rung, and answered by a knock at 
the Baronet’s door. 

“ Come in !” he cried passionately. 

“Did you please to want any thing, sir?” inquired the 
timid voice of the housemaid at the door. 

“ Send Larrazee to me : I’ve rung twice, tell him ; and 


186 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


pray inform whoever it w^as stumping about in that out- 
rageous way, that 1 won’t allow it.” 

“ Please, Sir Thomas, Mo unseer Lazzarus is in Mr. 
Warren’s room.” 

; “ Well — w^hat of that ? Send him hither this instant.” 

“ I don’t dare go in, please, Sir Thomas.” 

“ You’ll do as I bid you. Madam Pert. Don’t stand prat- 
ing to me, but obey directly.” 

“ Please, Sir Thomas,” replied the voice, faltering, “ the 
doctors and his lordship is there. Oh I Sir Thomas — poor 
Mr. Warren !” 

“ What of him ? Can’t you leave off flapping your hands, 
and answer? Is he wounded?” 

Oh, Sir Thomas, sir ! he’s dead !” 

“ Nonsense — dead ! Vulgar people always love a catas- 
trophe. Go this minute, and send Larrazee to me — d’ye 
hear?” 

The girl withdrew, and tapped at the opposite door, which 
was half-opened by Lord Langley himself. 

“ Oh, my lord ! master won’t believe about poor Mr. 
Warren, and wants Mounseer Lazzarus directly, please, my 
lord !” 

“ Very w'ell, my good girl, he shall ,go.” And the valet 
sought his master’s room. 

“ Larrazee, what nonsense has that wench been telling 
me ? I suppose that poor, foolish boy has allowed the Colonel 
to scratch him. I never shall make any thing of him, I 
fear.” 

“ Ah 1 mon bon maitre !” cried Larrazee, clasping his 
hands ; “ il est mort ! — il est mort ! — je I’ai vu — etendu roid 
mort siir son lit ! Ah ! c’est affreux — c’est affreux !” 

Sir Thomas sat up in his bed, looking like a pale spectre, 
in his frilled and ruffled shirt, beneath the dark shade othis 
velvet hangings. He stared at Larrazee — felt as though he 


THE DEAD. 


187 


were in a dream — and then, with his valet’s aid, partly dress- 
ing himself, sought his son’s room — sure that Larrazee was 
mistaken : that Jack might have swooned through loss of 
blood ; but that his son should be killed, that was quite out 
of the question. 

Sir Thomas had not calculated on the spectacle that 
awaited him. It had ever been his custom and constant aim 
to avoid hearing or seeing-any thing that could remind him 
of his mortality ; or, as he expressed it, that was liable “ to 
shake his nervous system.” The sight of a funeral cast a 
gloom over his spirits ; the death of his acquaintances gave 
him a fit of the spleen : not that he cared for them, or lament- 
ed over their departure, but simply because death had stepped 
into his “ circle'^ and forced him to suspect that some day per- 
haps he too might die I Horrible thought! and he chased it 
away with all his might ! He had never beheld a dead body ! 

“Hope I see your Ludship well,” he said, on entering the 
room and taking Lord Langley’s proffered hand ; who, bow- 
ing, replied not. 

“ Your servant, gentlemen,^’ he continued, with a gracious 
bow to the surgeons, and drew near to the bed. “ Jack, my 
dear boy, you — ” 

He started back. Lord Langley’s medical man, seizing 
the sheet which covered the body, drew it on one side, and 
gave to his view the corpse of his son, pale and cold. The 
shirt having been torn away, his marble like toi'so was ex- 
posed, with the deep crimson stain of blood dyeing the side. 
His eyes were closed, his placid mouth partly open ; his 
serene, but fixed countenance wore a sad expression, and 
seemed mutely and sorrowfully to upbraid his father with 
having caused his sudden and premature death. 

“ Gracious heaven ! how ghastly !” muttered Sir Thomas, 
feebly — riveting his eyes on the cold and lifeless body as 
though he were fascinated. 


188 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


The military surgeon, who felt for the death of so fine a 
young man, laying his hand on poor Jack’s immense ample 
chest, said sorrowfully; “ With such a chest as that he should 
have lived till ninety !” 

Sir Thomas raised his cold gray eyes toward him — and 
then again fixed them on his son. His sharp features be- 
came pinched — he trembled from head to foot, seized with a 
cold shudder. He looked around the room. The pale-blue 
watered-silk costume Jack had worn the evening before was 
thrown carelessly on the sofa, together with his hat and sword. 
The red-heeled shoes were on the floor, the diamond buckles 
sparkling beneath the sickly light which struggled through 
the smoky atmosphere ; beside them lay the laced and ruffled 
shirt. On the table, paper, j)ens, and wax were scattered 
about, just where Jack had left them. There were traces, 
too, of the toilet he had made but a few hours before. 

Sir Thomas felt sick and faint — shaken and shattered : a 
horror had crept over him which he could not withstand. 
The room was silent with the silence of death : his son’s 
immovable features and deadly white body took powerful 
hold on him. He tottered from the bedside, and leaning on 
Lord Langley’s arm, sought his own apartment ; followed by 
Lord Langley’s surgeon, to whom his lordship had made a 
sign, requesting him to proceed with them. 

On reaching his room he sank, trembling and shivering, 
into his large hergere, by the fire, and stared wildly at Lord 
Langley ; while the surgeon felt his pulse, and proceeded to 
write down a calming mixture for him. 

“ You are very nervous, my good sir,” he said ; “you will 
take some of the mixture I’ve written for, when you feel j^ou 
need it. I should advise you to go to bed, and keep quiet.” 

“No, no, no; I can not go to bed : it would kill me. I 
can not be left alone ! Some one should have told me he 
was dead, and I should not have gone into the room.” 


SHATTERED NERVES. 


189 


“ But you were told,” said Lord Langley, mildly : “ and I 
was on the point of going to you myself, when you arrived !” 

“ 1 shall never get that dreadful sight out of my mind ! I 
am odiously shaken, and all my fondest hopes are crushed. 
Do you think I shall ever recover my nerves, doctor ?” cried 
Sir Thomas, suddenly turning toward the surgeon. 

“ You take your mixture, sir ; and don’t give way so ; 
there’s nothing the matter with you. Your servant, my lord 
— your most obedient. Sir Thomas;” and the surgeon depart- 
ed, intensely disgusted with the Baronet and his conduct. 

“ The worst of it is,” cried the old man, tapping the arms 
of his chair with nervous rapidity ; “ I shan’t be able to go 
out, or see company, or do any thing to get this dreadful 
afiair off my mind. Don’t leave me, my lord, I entreat you, 
for heaven’s sake : I shall go mad with horror if you do. 
How could that heartless doctor show me such a sight? You 
should have prevented it, my lord !” 

“He has been accustomed to men, Sir Thomas; and of 
course imagined you were come to see your poor boy.” 

“ It was atrocious of him, I shall never get over it : my 
throat is quite parched, and my heart flutters like a bird’s 
wings. Wretched, miserable boy ! To allow himself to be 
run through in that way ! He had no amour 'pro'pre — no 
savoir faire : never entered into any of my little plans for 
him. I fear Dr. Spark was right when he said he was a 
‘ numskull! and that I should never make any thing of him. 
The immense advantages he has neglected, or kicked away 
from him !” 

“ Sir Thomas,” said Lord Langley, and his soft voice 
sounded severe, and somewhat contemptuous ; “ I can not 
remain here to listen to such sentiments as those. In this 
unhappy duel your son behaved like a thorough gentleman. 
He wounded the Colonel severely in the right breast, and fell 
and died with the courage of a man. You must recollect 


190 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


that you tore him, against his will, from the mode of life he 
was fitted for. He obeyed you as very few sons would have 
done. Well knowing that he had no feeling for town life, 
still you persevered in rendering his existence miserable. I 
mu^t beg, now the poor fellow is lying dead, that, in my pres- 
ence at all events, you will refrain from speaking of him as 
you did just now : he was my friend, and a more worthy 
young fellow I never met with and he sighed deeply. 

Sir Thomas looked abashed, and then with horror in his 
voice, cried : 

“ It was not my fault that he died. I did every thing in 
my power to promote his well-being. No one can attach any 
blame to me ! Can they, my lord ?” 

“ Your own conscience must decide that question. Some 
arrangements should he made about the funeral, sir. Poor 
Jack wished to be buried in his uncle’s parish, with the honors 
due to a fox-hunter ; and I pledged myself to see his desire 
fulfilled : and also to go myself, and tell the sad event to the 
poor old Squire, and to his ‘ little Lydia.’ ” 

“ No, no, no, my lord ; I won’t hear of it. It’s all non- 
sense — he must be buried in the family- vault, like a gentle- 
man. It is extraordinary the low tastes the boy indulged in, 
even to the last ! To be buried like a vulgar huntsman ! 
I’ll not hear of it and Sir Thomas patted the soft carpet 
rapidly, with his long thin foot. 

“I’m sure you owe your poor son some little reparation, 
sir.” 

Sir Thomas trembled, and cast his eyes down beneath 
Lord Langley’s mild but penetrating glance. He breathed 
hard, and a shudder crept over him as he thought of the sight 
he had so lately seen : there was something* in the recollection 
that awed him. He tried to think of Jack as the “ lout'^ he 
had vainly essayed to form to a statesman and fine gentle- 
man ; but, despite his efibrts, he saw the huge white chest so 


THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE. 


193 


cold and dead, the wide marble shoulders, the crimson blood, 
the calm reproachful face, the half-opened mouth — he saw, 
in short, a in the flower of his youth and strength,, 

lying dead and ghastly — and conscience whispered, faintly it 
is true, but distinctly, that he was not wholly innocent. As 
for grief — he felt none : nervous horror was all his selfish soul 
endured, with a beginning of remorse, which he strove to stifle 
and turn away from. 

With much ado. Lord Langley prevailed on him to grant 
Jack’s wish. He, with his usual kindness, undertook to ar- 
range every thing, and then departed for the country on his 
sorrowful mission. 

The darkened house, the silence and solitude, the recollec- 
tion that there was a dead body so near him, worked Sir 
Thomas up to a pitch of nervous terror he had never before 
experienced. Larrazee was not allowed to leave him day or 
night. The Baronet bade him read to him from a light and 
airy French work in verse ; but he could not fix his attention 
to listen to it : he tried piquet — the attempt was equally vain. 

“ I shall go mad — I shall go mad !” he cried to Larrazee, 
who sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “ I wish to heaven 
it was all over ! I shall get better when I can go out, and 
see company. Don’t you think so Larrazee ?” 

“ Faut esperer que oui, monseigneur !” 

“ Do speak English, can’t you ! I have a tremor all over 
me ; send for White, and give me some of that mixture. 
Lord Langley is perfectly odious! He s^^ems to think it is 
my fault. No one can suppose that for an instant, can they, 
Larrazee ? You know how much I had that boy’s interest 
at heart, the pains I took with him, and how ungratefully in- 
different he was for all my efforts.” 

“Yes,^Sire Varene! but poor Mistere Jac yoxxr son, he 
had no dispositions for 'petit was quite English 

hunter-for-foxez — quite !” 


192 


THE SCHOOL FOE, FATHEES. 


“ Hold your tongue, sir — ring the bell, and send for White, 
or I shall go mad. You are so unsatisfactory : read the paper 
to me. Oh dear ! oh dear ! when will this horrid time he 
over V* 

At night, Sir Thomas would not allow Larrazee to undress. 

He passed the time in an arm-chair, with strict orders to 
sleep lightly, and wake his master if he appeared to dream or 
moved restlessly. The Baronet fancied that Jack, as he had 
last seen him, was lying stiff and stark beside him ; and he 
repeated incessantly, and without intermission, “ It was not 
my fault — it was not my fault!” Then, with a shriek he 
awoke — rated Larrazee for allowing him to dream so — arose 
— ordered his valet to light all the candles, and paced up and 
down during the remainder of the night, leaning on Larra- 
zee’s arm. Faint and exhausted, he returned to bed at day- 
dawn, and sank into a lethargic slumber ; from which the 
awakening was most horrible. 

Each day added to his misery. His conscience was be- 
coming clamorous — a vail falling from his eyes ! He felt, 
now that it was too late, the hopelessness of the task he had 
undertaken ; and conscience told him that he had cruelly torn 
Jack from his happiness, and that, but for his senseless schemes, 
the poor fellow might yet be alive and enjoying an innocent 
life, far from turmoil and worldly vanities. 

Every thing is for the hestf he would say ; but the words 
were a sound only, and brought no consolation to him — did 
not for one second still the voice of conscience, his ceaseless, 
secret tormentor. 

It was on a lovely January evening that Sir Thomas ar- 
rived at his brother’s, to act as chief mourner at his son’s 
funeral. The winter’s sun was setting, like a blood-red globe 
of fire, among the light and ruddy clouds. The frosty air 
w^as bright and clear, the sky appearing speckled by the home- 
ward-bound rooks. As the heavy coach drew up at the hall- 


MANLY SORROW. 


193 


door, Sir Thomas recollected that he had there met poor Jack, 
and that he had taken him for a footman, 

“ I wish to heaven I had never seen the boy,” he thought^ 
or that I had left him to his low pursuits ! However, 1 
have done my duty !” 

“ That is false,” whispered conscience. 

Lord Langley had remained at Denham Park : so touched 
was he by poor old Squire Warren’s silent, manly grief, he 
could not leave him alone in his sorrow. 

“ Poor hoy ! poor hoy !” was all he said, with a hitter sigh ; 
after sitting sometimes for an hour or two with fixed stare, 
and without uttering a word. 

Sir Thomas shut himself up in his own room, with Larra- 
zee, his mixture-bottles, and his tremors and remorse. 

The old Squire sought him ; and trying to forget his own 
sorrow, went prepared to do what he could to comfort “poor 
Tom.” He sat down hy the fire, sighed, and said : 

“We mustn’t give way, Tom. Perhaps the poor lad’s 
been spared a deal of misery. Nature points out to grieve, 
hut nature shouldn’t always he listened to. Keep up a good 
heart, brother ; he was your only child, but I don’t think you 
can feel more for him than I do. His lordship says he fell 
like a man ; that I’m sure he would do, poor dear boy !” 

“ Don’t talk about him, Ned : it makes me quite sick and 
nervous, I vow ! I never could make any thing of him ; but 
I did my duty — gave him every advantage and opportunity 
of advancing — but, no ! he would adhere to his groveling 
tastes, and did justice to none of my efibrts in his favor. 
There were the finest women about town he might have gal- 
lanted with and have polished himself No ! it was always 
‘ Lydia,’ and a blush, and — ” 

“It is much to my dear Jack’s credit,” cried the Squire, 
looking amazed and wrathfully at his vain, selfish brother ; 
“ it showed the goodness of his fine manly heart ! He was 

I 


194 


THE SCHOOL POE FATHERS. 

too good for all that finery and stuff. Ah I Tom, Tom, you 
should have left him with me — he’d a’ been alive now, and 
saved us all this grief and misery. I never shall forget when 
his body arrived! poor fellow — never! They opened the 
coffin that I might take a last farewell. I kissed his clay 
cold cheek. Ah! Tom, Tom I” and Squire Warren rubbed 
his knees, shook his head, and groaned rather than sighed. 

Sir Thomas vibrated with rage, remorse, and nervous irri- 
tability. 

“ You seem to imagine, Ned, that I killed the boy. It 
was no fault of mine if he was awkward enough to allow th© 
Colonel to get at him in that way.” 

“ Not so, Tom — not so, Tom. I know you did not kill 
him ; "but if you had let him bide quietly here — as he wished 
to do, poor fellow — he’d a’ been alive now. I asked my lord 
if he thought Jack cared for the widow ] iVc>,. he says : he 
was constant to Lydia to the last, and only spoke to the 
widow because you forced him to it : for he had no opinion 
of her at all, and would never have got into this duel, Tom, 
if it hadn’t been for you.” 

“ Damnation !” cried the Baronet, in choking accents. 
“ Leave the room, sir, if that is the only comfort you can 
give to a bereaved father !” 

I didn’t mean to hurt you, Tom,” replied the old Squire 
mildly : “ but I don’t think you care much for the loss of 
poor Jack ; only you are sorry for the part you have had in 
it.” 

“ Larrazee, give me some of the mixture— a double dose. 
I must beg of you, Ned, to leave me. I know not which is 
most unfeelingly coarse and unkind, you or my Lord Lang- 
ley.” 

“ Well, my dear Ned, I meant no harm. Good-night to 
’ee. We’ve a hard day to-morrow-^heaven help us through 
it!” 


THE MOURNERS. 


195 


The Baronet fumed and fretted through the night. His 
brother’s blunt and simple words struck home : he felt all 
that he had done, now that feeling w'as too late ; he saw the 
chimera he had been pursuing; he saw Jack’s patient good- 
temper ; he was conscious that he had doggedly determined 
to sacrifice a fellow-creature’s happiness to the selfish phantom 
of his own empty brain ; and then he in fancy beheld the 
blood-stained body of his son — ^his fixed cold features. He 
knew that the black coffin and funeral plumes were in the 
room beneath him : he shook in every fibre — the sweat burst 
out from every pore, through the nervous agony of his trou- 
bled mind. 

The following morning, betimes^ Larrazee, arrayed in deep 
mourning, proceeded to dress his peevish, trembling master. 

“ What a senseless, disagreeable, barbarous custom, this 
wearing of mourning is, Larrazee. It will give me an atro- 
cious fit of spleen, I protest.” 

“ Vieux scelerat — pere sans entr allies thought the valet ; 
who was so disgusted with Sir Thomas, and so sorry for Jack, 
he had made up his mind to seek another service, as soon as 
decency would allow of his doing so. 

There was a subdued stir in the house, and just as Sir 
Thomas was dressed. Lord Langley, in very deep and elegant 
mourning, entered his room, accompanied by Squire Warren, 
who wore his scarlet hunting-suit, a crape round his left arm, 
a crape scarf across his shoulder. Lord Langley looked very 
pale and very grave ; Sir Thomas was quite astounded at his 
brother’s noble, manly, and sorrowful air. 

“ They’re all ready, Tom,^’ he said ; “ we’re come to fetch 
you, if you’re ready too.” 

Sir Thomas took his brother’s proffered arm, and sought 
the room in which lay his son’s body. He slightly started as 
he entered. The coffin was in the middle of the room, a 
quantity of huge black feathers at the head ; poor Jack’s cap. 


196 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHERS. 


spurs, and whip, with two foxes’ brushes placed across, were 
on the lid. Four sturdy huntsmen stood around it, ready to 
remove it : they wore their hunting-dresses, and their whips 
were flung across their shoulders. On the floor around them 
lay several old hounds who were to accompany them. The 
room was completely filled by Jack’s hunting friends ; who, 
with aching hearts, had flocked from far and near, to tender 
their last mark of respect and affection to him. 

They all silently bowed as Sir Thomas entered ; and he, 
having expected to see “ a set of humjpkinsf was much as- 
tonished at the manly, aristocratic appearance they presented, 
the subdued sorrow of their several countenances, as well as 
at the number of friends Jack could call his own. His con- 
science rudely smote him at the sight — “ Thou art the cause 
of this sorrow^ and this sad array!” it said, in unmistakable 
sounds. “For what?” it asked. He could only reply; “For 
my own good will and pleasure !” He cast down his eyes ; 
he felt unworthy to raise them on the honest, open counte- 
nances around him. 

Squire Warren made a sign to the huntsmen, who slowly 
raised the coffin on their shoulders ; while four young men of 
Jack’s own age— four friends of his childhood — stepped for- 
ward as pall-bearers. The whole assembly wore their scarlet 
hunting-suits, with crape scarfs, each man carrying his 
whip in his hand. The hounds walked on each side the 
coffin, as if they knew the part they ought to bear in the 
ceremony ; they seemed too, to step slowly and solemnly, and 
to hang their heads with a melancholy aspect. 

The long procession slowly descended the avenue. First 
came four whips ' ' — then the feathers — then the coffin — 
then poor Jack’s favorite hunter — a splendid bay, decked in 
black velvet housings, a fox’s brush decorating his head as a 
feather. He was led by the Squire’s old groom, poor old 
Billy Chandler. He had given Jack his first lessons in riding, 


THE PROCESSION. 


197 


and the old man’s eyes bore traces of tears ; and he sadly 
shook his head from time to time, as he followed Mas- 

ter Jack^s'' body to the grave. Next followed Squire Warren 
and Lord Langley ; then the whole train of friends two and 
two ; and finally Sir Thomas Warren’s coach, containing 
himself and Larrazee ; as the Baronet would have found it 
utterly impossible to reach the church on foot. 

He shuddered, as, on entering his coach, he heard the loud 
sonorous bell tolling for his son, sounding through the cold, 
clear air. 

Sir Thomas had never been present at a funeral ; he had 
always declared that nothing on earth should ever induce 
him to behold so melancholy an exhibition. 

At the park gates stood a large assemblage of the country- 
men, young and old, hat in hand ; all dressed in their clean 
while Sunday frocks, waiting to fall to the rear of the proces- 
sion, and to show their feeling for the young Squire^' by 
following him to his “ last home^ 

The sun shone brightly that morning, and all nature looked 
cheerfully placid beneath his rays. Poor little Lydia, bitter- 
ly weeping, beheld the cortege pass. “ Dear Jack ! dear 
Jack I” she cried, “ how could I so forget you ?’^ 

On reaching the church-yard Sir Thomas took Larrazee’s 
arm. He looked pinched and haggard, and breathed hard, 
as he heard Dr. Freeman’s soft deep voice beginning the 
burial service — the contents of which service were perfectly 
unknown to the Baronet. On entering the old church he 
shuddered : a village church was to him a depressing spot, 
much to be avoided ! The coffin was placed in the dark 
aisle ; the Vicar solemnly continued the service : each word 
of which, heard for the first time, and under such circum- 
stances, struck awe to his soul — filled him with an unknown 
horror and dread — made death seem present with him — 
death ! that feared, but unavoidable event ! The country 


198 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


people present, seeing his troubled countenance, thought how 
much 'Hhe poor old gentleman'' must have loved his son; 
and their hearts ached for him. 

The coffin was again raised, and deposited beside the deep, 
wide grave. Dr. Freeman’s voice trembled, and a tear stole 
down his cheek. Squire Warren’s hands were tightly clasped, 
and his firm mouth worked convulsively as he fixed his moist- 
ened eyes on his nephew’s coffin ; while Lord Langley, 
unable to restrain his feelings, covered his eyes, and sorrow- 
fully wept. The mourners kept silence ; a silence full of re- 
spect and sorrow : it was an expressive silence ; so fixed and 
motionless did each man stand, he scarcely seemed to breathe. 

Sir Thomas, averting his eyes from the coffin, vibrated 
from head to foot beneath his long mourning cloak. 

The stout huntsmen passed ropes beneath the coffin ; and, 
assisted by the whippers-in," lowered it into the grave. 
The Baronet gasped as he heard the grating sound— the 
Squire involuntarily raised his clasped hands, and bowed his 
head. There was a slight movement among the assemblage, 
and many a sigh escaped from the stout breasts around. 
Then came solemn words, and the startling hollow sound of 
earth on the coffin-lid. Sir Thomas grasped Larrazee con- 
vulsively ; who, putting his arm around his master, firmly 
supported him. The service was ended. The Baronet turned 
to depart ; Lord Langley gently detained him. Poor Jack’s 
hunter was led up to the grave, his friends gathered as closely 
round as they could, and with one accord, as one man, gave 
forth, three several times, their departed friend’s favorite cry 
— a ringing, clear, far-sounding, view hallo !'^ 

Sir Thomas staggered ; his knees gave way beneath him ; 
his brother and Lord Langley hurried toward him, and re- 
ceived him in their arms, then carried him swooning to his 
carriage. All remained uncovered as he was carried past, 
pale and ghastly as a corpse ; all pitied the grief of a parent : 


THE LAST HONORS. 


199 


how abashed and unworthy would he have felt, could they 
have read his real feelings, and how their upright manly 
hearts would have scorned him ! 

On returning to Denham Park, Sir Thomas only remained 
an hour, and departed on his way to Bath ; whither he went 
to while away a month, and dispel, if possible, the horrors 
which invaded him. 

Lord Langley, full of compassion and respect for the poor 
old Squire could not endure the idea of leaving him alone 
with his grief, in a spot where every thing must remind him 
of his poor lost Jack. 

“ I wish,- sir,” he said, “you would favor me so far as to 
make my house your home, as long as you may feel disposed 
to remain there. You are aware that I never hunt, but we 
have two packs of hounds close at hand. You must not deny 
my request : bring over your horses ; I will introduce you to 
all my friends in the neighborhood — the change of air will 
do you good ; my wife will meet us there, and I am sure she 
will feel the same friendship . for you which she did for our 
friend Jack.” 

“ Thank’ee, thank’ee,” returned the Squire, with the voice 
and manner of his poor nephew. “ Moping will do none of 
us any good ; and grieving won’t bring the dead to hfe. ’Tis 
our duty to bear up like men, and make the best of our sor- 
rows. You’re a great comfort to me, my lord, and I can 
never thank you enough for your kindness ; never !” 

“ Then you do me the pleasure of accepting my ofler,” said 
Lord Langley, smihng with joy at the Squire’s words. 

“ With all my heart, my lord ; and Heaven bless you !” 

Lord Langley escorted the Squire to his country seat, where 
Lady Langley joined them ; both doing their best to comfort 
him, and dispel his grief; while he did every thing in his 
power to vanquish it, through gratitude and good feeling 
toward his hosts. 


200 


THE SCHOOL FOE FATHEKS. 


They would not suffer him to leave them for many months ; 
and when he did return to Denham Park it was not alone ! 
The Squire returned a married man ! A handsome widow, 
fat, fair y and forty f had given her hand, and (though 
some may not believe it) her heart, to the fine old Squire, 
She did not, on her arrival at his home, set about hating his 
dogs, and endeavoring to jput doivn'' his hunting, as I have 
known some unwise women to do. No ! she rejoiced to see 
him happy in his healthy sports : and I verily believe that 
many a wife sets her face doggedly against manly pastimes, 
and male society — let alone Club '^ — merely because she 

can not partake in them ! Such wives, through sheer envy, 
would rather see their lords, to use a common expression, 
“ tied to their a^r on-strings f sick and weary of wife and 
family, than behold them mixing cheerfully with their fellow- 
men, and returning home to them with some degree of fresh- 
ness of heart — not worn out by domestic details, and the per- 
petual society of children, for which the mind and nature of 
man are as totally unfit, as those of women are for the senate 
and hunting-field. An ^^affectionate husband!^ with these 
ladies, signifies in plain English, a *^jpoor creature^' who 
would willingly break his chain, mais la force lui manque! 

Squire Warren never, to the end of a very long life, once 
repented of the step he had taken, and was wont to say, with 
a merry laugh, a-propos of his marriage, better late thaji 
never 

I have only to add, that Mistress Warren never whipped 
the old pensioner hounds, or expressed a wish to have the 
poor old pensioner horses shot ; as I knew a viciously jealous 
lady do, once upon a time. She fed them and caressed them, 
because the Squire loved them, as well as to gratify the kind 
feelings of her benevolent heart. 

“I wish, Dolly,” the Squire would say, laughingly, “you 
would be a little ill-tempered ; you wouldn’t grow so fat, then I” 


SIR T^HOMAS WARREN’S REFLECTIONS. 


201 


Sir Thomas Warren tried Bath, but Bath failed to com- 
fort him. His old friends appeared to him so heartless, and 
so much more occupied with their own gout, rheumatism, and 
cards, than with his nerves and horrors, that he lost all pleas- 
ure in their society. 

His son now appeared to him in so different a point of view, 
ever since he had witnessed the manly respect and affection 
shown for his memory by his country friends, that the recol- 
lection of him^ and the consciousness of his own selfish folly 
became more and more insupportable than ever. The “ low 
fox-hunters'^ he had so looked down upon, arose before his 
mind, rough and blunt, perhaps, but gentlemen: unmistak- 
ably gentlemen. There is much difierence between rough- 
ness and vulgarity. He now saw that Jack had been one of 
them ; and he felt a conscious meanness when he reflected on 
his conduct toward him, and the poor fellow’s submission and 
unfailing patience. 

The effect produced on his weak mind by the sight of his 
son’s dead body, and the circumstances of his obsequies, did 
not wear off. He could not forget several striking parts of the 
burial service, although he tried with all his power to do so. 
French romances and lively comedies were essayed in vain : 
still the awful sentences remained indelibly fixed in his 
memory. 

“ I wish I had never interfered with that unfortunate boy 
of mine !” he would say, with a groan. “ But then, I’d no- 
thing else to divert me, and fill up my time !” 

Fathers ! before you put your sons in any particular path 
of life, study, if you can, their various dispositions, characters, 
talents, and capabilities. How often do we see men in the 
army or navy, who, had they been allowed to follow their 
true bent, would have made excellent churchmen or lawyers ; 
and who, on their father^ death, quit the profession of arms 
for more genial pursuits. Again, how often do w^e see a Ian- 


202 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


guishing nonchalant clergyman, without feeling for his callitig, 
perishing with ennui^ who would have been a distinguished 
soldier but for the paternal will ; which said : “ That boy 
must go into the Church !” — Then again, we behold a barrister 
detesting pen-and-ink, and close hot rooms, and law-study and 
practice : a being whose aspirations and talents all pointed to 
the sea ; but his fa therms taste pointed to an “ intellectual 
profession, and the boy, without the least love of study, or 
much aptitude for it, is dragooned, hon gre mal gre^ to the 
bar ! You will see such-an-one, during his vacation, living 
in salt water — yachting, steaming, rowing, voyaging in mer- 
chantmen, and returning to his gown and wig with a weary 
heart ! — I do not mean that because a boy has read Rob- 
ser-Crusoe” — as young gentlemen are wont to pronounce the 
name — ^that his enthusiasm is to be gratified by being sent in 
quest of shipwrecks and “man Friday,” any more than that 
he should be allowed to be a highwayman — a character for 
which some boys have a great penchant — because his enthu- 
siasm has been awakened by the life of Robin Hood or Dick 
Turpin ; but it is a cruel sight to see a man’s life passing by 
in the daily avocations of a profession for which he has no 
feeling — perhaps a positive dislike — and to which a father’s 
will condemned him even before he could walk or talk ! 

Young gentlemen’s caprices should not be studied ; but 
their characters and aptitudes are worthy of some little con- 
sideration. 

Then there are “ eldest sonSy^ who, with a decided vocation 
for some particular profession, are not allowed to belong to it, 
because they have plenty of money '' or else that their father 
“ can not fart with them.^^ You may behold these unfortu- 
nates either passing their days in pining restless idleness, or 
plunging headlong into dissipation to kill the time that hangs 
so heavily on their hands. 

The month Sir Thomas meant to pass at Bath was pro- 


LIVING BY BULE. 


203 


longed to two, in consequence of a fit of the gout ; which de- 
pressed his spirits beyond measure. He feared death more 
than ever ; and the dread of it began to take such hold upon 
him, that to ward off the dreaded moment of his demise began 
to be the study of his life : the new occupation which was, in 
its turn, to succeed to the pursuits of gallantry, diplomacy, and 
the education of his son. 

Larrazee one morning placed the last number of the 
“ London Magazine” on his table, beside his breakfast tray. 

“ Cut the leaves, and read aloud the marriages and births 
— ;pas les morts — ongtong tew V 

“ Oui, monseigneur !” and Larrazee proceeded to obey his 
master^s will — reading the list of Hymen’s recruits till, half- 
way through, he met with the following : 

“ ‘ Lieutenant-Colonel Penruddock, of His Majesty’s Cold- 
stream Regiment of Footguards, to Mistress Arabella Fairfax, 
A £40,000 fortune.’ ” 

“ That will do — that will do !” cried Sir Thomas, frowning, 
and pettishly waving his skeleton hand, “Read something 
from Gresset’s works !” 

On returning to town, the Baronet found the season drawing 
to a close. Every one met him with their accustomed smiles ; 
none seemed to waste a thought on his private griefs : the fatal 
duel and Jack were forgotten — the remembrance of them 
swept away by the rapid waters of worldly oblivion. Sir 
Thomas found society becoming a burden to him : every draw- 
ing-room he entered reminded him of Jack — and the thought 
of Jack invariably reminded him of death ; he felt no elasticity 
of mind — no interest in any thing but himself and his own 
health. Then, too, he began to imagine that late hours and 
hot rooms were inimical to longevity, and so he only attended 
early parties, where but few guests were assembled, small 
and early. Anon he imagined that London air was very 
bad for him, and retreated to his country-house. When there. 


204 


THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS. 


he began to study diet — dismissed his French cook, gave him- 
self indigestions with boiled mutton and nourishing beef- 
steaks, and made himself bilious with morning libations of 
milk warm from the cow. This necessitated medicine ; which 
the Baronet administered to himself, until he made himself 
ill enough to need medical advice. This advice gave him 
pleasure and occupation, and the opportunity of talking ex- 
clusively of himself and his ills, and of being exclusively 
listened to. And thus, from one step to another. Sir Thomas 
conducted himself into a life passed in two rooms, under the 
superintendence of a domestic physician ; a regulated walk in 
his grounds twice a day, medicine ad infinitum^ much ennui, 
and finally a descent into the tomb some years before his time : 
and all through an undue fear of death. “ Stavo bene — e per 
star meglio, sto qui !’^ might with justice have been engraved 
on his monument. 

We are now in the early part of the month of May which 
came after Jack Warren’s fatal duel. 

A light genial spring-shower was falling silently and softly 
on all around — on the green sod which covered poor Jack’s 
grave and the daisies which grew thereon, as well as on little 
Lydia’s favorite flower-borders. The afternoon rays of the sun 
were shining through the falling drops — the rainbow spanning 
the heavens — the warm air full of the perfume of the sweet- 
briar — blackbirds and thrushes loudly caroling, and little 
Philander from his cage taking part in the concert without. 

Lydia, in deep mourning, was sitting at her tapestry-work 
in the parlor ; but she had let it fall on her lap, and, with a 
listless air, sat with eyes fixed on the little oval picture, the 
gift of Mr. Addison, which was suspended by a blue ribbon 
to the wainscoted wall. The sun shone full upon it, and 
lighted it up to such a degree of cheerful gayety, making the 
two little personages represented on the canvas look so smil- 


LYDIA PENSIVE. 


205 


ingly happy, that poor Lydia, from the contrast between them t 
and her own feelings, sighed deeply and felt really miserable. 

She was thinner than in former days, with a pensive expres- 
sion in her mild blue eyes ; and the beautiful delicate carna- 
tion of her cheek was a shade paler than its natural tint. 

Suddenly she started — her heart beat quickly — she heard 
a quick, firm step, and a well-known jingle of spurs — a dark 
shadow was cast on the little picture — the next second Mr. 
Addison stood in the garden-doorway ! He had evidently 
come off a journey, and his horseman’s cloak was wet with 
the falling shower. He did not speak a word, but he smijed 
gayly, and his-eyes beamed with delight. Lydia ran toward 
him — he caught her in his arms — and in that moment all 
past sorrow was forgotten. He whispered a few words to her, 
and little Lydia, with an overflowing heart, promised to be 
his ! 


THE END. 





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lin, $1 00 per Volume. Vols. I. and II. ready. 

/- 

A New Classical Dictionary 

Of Greek and Roman Biography, Mythology, and Geography. 
For Colleges and Schools. By Wm. Smith, LL.D. Edited, 
with large Additions, by Charles Anthon, LL.D. Royal 
8vo, Sheep extra, $2 50. 

The English Language 

In its Elements and Forms. With a History of its Origin and 
Development, and a full Grammar. By William C. Fowler. 
Designed for Use in Colleges and Schools. 8vo, Muslin, $1 50 ; 
' Sheep, $1 75. ' ^ 

' Harper's N. Y. ^ Erie R. R. Guide : 

Containing a Description of the Scenery, Rivers,^Towns, Vil- 
lages, and most' important Works on the Road. Embellished 
with 136 Engravings on Wood, by Lossing & Barritt, from Orig- 
inal Sketches made expressly for this Work, by Wm. M'Leod. 
. 12mo, Paper, 50 cents ; Muslin, 62|^ cents. 

The English in America. 

- Rule and Misrule of the English in America. By the Autnor 
of “ Sam Slick the Clockmaker,” “ The Letter Bag,” “ Attach^,” 
“ Old Judge,” &c. 12mo, Muslin, 75 cents. 

The Literature and Literary Men 

^ " Of Great Britain and Ireland. By Abraham Mills, A.M. 
2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $3 50 ; half Calf, $4 00. 

A Greeh-English Lexicon, 

■ Based on the German Work of Passow. "'Ey Henry G. Lid- 
t dell, M.A., and Richard Scott, M.A. With Corrections and 
Additions, and the Insertion in Alphabetical Order of the Prop- 
er Names occurring in the principal Greek Authors^ by Henry 
Drisler, M.A. Royal 8vo, Sheep, $5 00. 



I 

6 HARPER & BROTHERS’ LIST OF NEW WORKS. 


The Recent Progress of Astronomy, 

Especially in the' United States. By Elias Lo'omiS, M.A. 
New Edition. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00. . \ 


^ Cosmos : ■' . - 

A Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe. By Al- 
exander von Humboldt. Translated from the German, by E. 
C. Otte. Complete in 3 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 55. 

> 

Bichersteth' s Memoirs. 

A Memoir of the late Rev. Edward Bickersteth, Rector of 
Watton. By Rev. T. R. Birks, M.A. With a Preface, &c., ^ 
by Eev. Stephen H. Tyng, D.D., of New York. 2 vols. 12mo, 
Muslin, $1 75. ^ . 


Fosterls Christian Purity. 

The Nature and Blessedness of Christian Purity. By Rev. R. 
7" S. Poster. With an Introduction by Bishop Janes. 12mo, 
Muslin, 75 cents. • . , - - . - 

Elements of Natural Philosophy. - 

Designed as a Text-book for Academies, High-Schools, and ' 
Colleges. 'By Alonzo Gray, A. M.> Illustrated by 360 , Wood- 
cuts. 12mo, Muslin, 70 cents ; Sheep, 75 cents. ' > 

Lord Holland’s Foreign Reminiscences. 

Edited by his Son, Henry Edward Lord Holland. 12mo, 
Paper, 60 cents ; Muslin, 75 cents. 7 

Curran and his Contemporaries. , 

- By Charles Phillips, A.B. 12mo, Paper, 75 cents; Muslin, 
87| cents. ' - - 

The Irish Confederates, - ' - ■ ' 

' And the Rebellion of 1798. By Henry M. Field. Portraits 
and'a Map. ^ 12mo, Paper, 75 cents; Muslin, 90 cents. 

The Harmony of Prophecy ; 7 ' . 

Or, Scriptural Illustrations of the Apocalypse. By Rev. Al- 
exander Keith, D.D. 12mo, Muslin, 00. 

■ * ■ . ^ 

The Bards of the Bible. 

, By George Gilfillan. 12mo, Muslin, 35 cents. 


HARPER & BROTHERS’ LIST OF NEW WORKS. 7 


Abbott's Illustrated Histories : 

^The following Works of the Series are now ready: Josephine, 
Cleopatra, Madame Roland, Xerxes the Great, Cyrus the Great, 
Darius the Great, Charles I., Charles II., Hannibal, Julius CaB- 
sar, Alfred the Great, Maria Antoinette, Gueen Elizabeth, Al- 
exander the Great, William the Conqueror, Mary Gueen of 
> , Scots. 16mo, Muslin, with Illuminated Title-pages and numer- 
ous Engravings, 60 cents per Volume. , 

Abbott's Franconia Stories : 

Comprising Malleville, Beechnut, Mary Bell, Wallace, Mary 
Erskine. 16mo, beautifully bound in Muslin, Engraved Title- 
pages and numerous Illustrations, 50 cents per Volume. 

Kings and Queens ; 

Or, Life in the Palace: consisting of Historical Sketches of Jo- 
^ sephine and Maria Louisa, Louis Philippe, Ferdinand of Aus- 
tria, Nicholas, Isabella II., Leopold, and Victoria. By J. S. C. 
Abbott. With numerous Illustrations. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00 ; 
Muslin, gilt edges, $1 25. 

A Summer in Scotland, 

By Jacob Abbott. With Engrayings. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00 

Five Years of a Hunter's Life 

In the Far Interior of South Africa. With Notices of the Na- 
tive Tribes, and Anecdotes of the Chase of the Lion, Elephant, 
Hippopotamus, Giraffe, Rhinoceros, &c. By R. Gordon Cum- 
MiNG. With Engravings. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $1 75. 

Sydney Smiths Moral Philosophy, ^ 

An Elementary Treatise on Moral Philosophy, delivered at the 
Royal Institution in the Years 1804, 1805, and 1806. By the 
late Rev. Sydney Smith. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00. 

Travels in the United States, etc. 

During 1849 and 1850. By Lady Emmeline Stuart Wort- 
ley. 12mo, Paper, 60 cents; Muslin, 75 cents. 

Dealings with the Inquisition ; 

Or, Papal Rome, her Priests, and her Jesuits. With Important 
Disclosures. By the Rev. Giacinto Achilli, D.D., late Prior 
and Visitor of the Dominican Order, &c. 12mo, Muslin, 75 cts. 



8 HARPER & BROTHERS' LIST OF NEW WORKS. 



Leigh Hunfs Autobiography^ 


With Reminiscences of his Friends and Contemporaries. Id 
'^2 vols."12mo, Muslin,j$l 50. 

CamphelVs Life and Letters. 

' Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell. Edited by William 
_ Beattie, M.D. With an Introductory Letter, by Washington 
Irving. 2 vols! 12mo, Muslin, $2 00. 

Doctor Johnson : 

His Religious Life and Death. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00. . ^ 

Southefs Life and Correspondence. 

Edited by his Son, Rev. C. C. Southey, M.A. Portrait. 8vo, 
Muslin, $1 75. ‘ ^ 

Southey^s Common-place Booh, 

Edited by his Son-in-Law, John W ood Warter, B.D. 3 vols. 
8vo, Paper, $1 00 per Vol. ; Muslin, $1 25 per Vol. . * 

History of Greece', 

From the Earliest Times to the Destruction of Corinth, B.C. 
146; mainly based upon that of Bishop ThirlwAll. _ By Dr^ , 
L. Schmitz, F.R.S.E. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00. 

History of Rome, . ' 

From the Earliest Times to the Death of Commodus,-A.D. 192. 
By Dr. L. Schmitz, F.R.S.E. With duestions, by J. Rob- 
son, B.A. 18mo, Muslin, 75 cents. 

A Treatise on Popular Education ; 

For the Use of Parents and Teachers, and for Young People of 
both Sexes. Printed and Published in accordance with a Res- 
olution of the Senate and House of Representatives of the State 
of Michigan. By Ira Mayhew, late Superintendent of Public 
Instruction. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00. 

The Conquest of Canada. - 

By the Author of “ Hochelaga.’' 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $1 70. 

. Health, Disease, and Remedy, 

Familiarly and practically considered in a few of their Relations 
to the Blood. By G. Moore, M.D. 18mo, Muslin, 60 cents. 


HARPER & BROTHERS’ LIST OF NEW WORKS. 9 


Hume^s History of England, 

From the Invasion of JuKus Caesar to the Abdication of James 
IL, 1688. By David Hume. A new Edition, with the Author’s 
last Corrections and Improvements To which fs prefixed a 
Short Account of his Life, written by Himself. With a Por- 
trait of the Author. 6 vols. 12mo, Cloth, $2 40 ; Sheep, $3 00. 

Macaulay's History pf England 

From the Accession of James II. By Thomas B. Macaulay. 
With an Original Portrait of the Author. Vols. I. and IL Li- 
brary Edition, 8vo, Muslin, 75 cents per Vol. ; Sheep extra, 87^ 
cents per Vol. ; Calf backs and comers, $1 00 per Vol. — Cheap 
Editions, 8vo, Paper, 25 cents per Vol: 12mo (uniform with 
Hume), Cloth, 40 cents per Vol. ; Sheep, 50 cents per Vol. 

Gibbon's History of Rome. 

I History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By 

I Edward Gibbon. With Notes, by Rev. H. H. Milman and 

i M. Guizot. ^ Maps and Engravings. 4 vols. 8vo, Sheep extra, 

I $5 00. — A new Cheap Edition, with Notes, by Rev. H. H. Mil- 

man. To which is added a complete Index of the whole Work, 
and a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols. 1 2mo (uniform with Hume), 
Cloth, $2 40 ; Sheep, $3 00. - 

History of Spanish Literature. 

With Criticisms on the particular Works and Biographical No- 
tices of prominent Writers. By George Ticknor. 3 vols. 
8vo, Muslin, $6 00 ; Sheep, $6 75 ; half Calf, $7 50. 

Pictorial History of England. 

Being a History of the People as well as a History of the King- 
dom, down to the Reign of George III. Profusely Illustrated 
with many Hundred Engravings on Wood of Monumental Rec- 
ords ; Coins ; Civil and Military Costume ; Domestic Buildings, 
Furniture, and Ornaments; Cathedrals and othei great Works 
of Architecture; Sports, and other Illustrations of Manners; 
Mechanical Inventions ; Portraits of Eminent Persons ; and re- 
markable Historical Scenes. 4 vols. imperial 8vo, Sheep, $12 00 ; 
half Calf, $13 50. 

The War with Mexico. 

By R. S. Ripley, U.S.A. With Maps, Plans of Battles, &c. 
2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $4 00 ; Sheep, $4 50. 



10 HARPER & BROTHERS’ LIST OF NEW WORKS. 


Ancient and Mediceval Geography. 

For the Use of Schools and Colleges. By Charles Anthon, 
LL.D. 8vo, Muslin, $1 50 ; Sheep extra, $1 75. 

Findlay's Classical Atlas 

To Illustrate Ancient Geography. Comprised in 25 Maps, show- 
ing the various Divisions of the W orld as known to the Ancients. 
By Alex. Findlay, F.R.S. With an Index of the Ancient 
and Modern Names. 8vo, half Bound, $3 25. 

A First Book in Latin. 

Containing Grammar, Exercises, and Vocabularies, on the Meth- 
od of constant Imitation and Repetition. By Prof, M‘Clintock, 
of Dickinson College. 12mo, Sheep, 75 cents. 

A First Book in Greek. 

Containing full Vocabularies, Lessons on the Fonns of Words, 
and Exercises for Imitation and Repetition, with a Summary 
of Etymology and Syntax. By Professor M'^lintock. 12mo, 
Sheep, 75 cents. 

A Second Book in Greek. 

Containing Syntax, with Reading Lessons in Prose ; Prosody, 
and the Dialects, with Reading Lessons in Verse; forming a 
sufficient Greek Grammar. By Prof. M'Clintock. 12mo, 

I Sheep, 75 cents. 

The Pillars of Hercules ; 

Or, a Narrative of Travels in Spain and Morocco in 1848. By 
David Urq,uhart, M.P. 2 vols. 12mo, Paper, $1 40 ; Muslin, 
$170. 

The Valley of the Mississippi. 

History of the Discovery and Settlement o “the Valley of the 
Mississippi, by the three great European Powers, Spain, Prance, 
and Great Britain; and the Subsequent Occupation, Settle- 
ment, and Extension of Civil Government by the United States, 
until the Year 1846. By John W. Monette. Maps. 2 vols. 
8vo, Muslin, $5 00 ; Sheep, $5 50. 

Moral and Political Philosophy. 

With Guestions for the Examination of Students. By Will- 
iam Paley, D.D. 12mo, Muslin, 60 cents. 


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